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Tecnnical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bihiiographiques 


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sont  indiqu^s  ci-dessous. 


r~]    Coloured  covers/ 

I       I    Couvarture  da  coulaur 


' — j    Covers  damaged/ 

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filmag*. 


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or  illustrated  irrprassion. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microficha 
shall  contain  the  symbol  —^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  syrr.bol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  appliea. 


Laa  axamplaires  originaux  dont  la  couvenure  an 
papier  eat  imprimte  sont  filmis  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  at  an  terminant  soit  par  la 
derniare  paga  qui  comporca  una  amprainta 
d'impreasion  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  la  second 
plat,  salon  la  caa.  Tous  laa  autraa  axamplaires 
originaux  sont  filmas  an  commancant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporta  ur>9  smo'ainta 
d'impreasion  ou  d'illustration  at  an  terminant  par 
la  darniAra  page  qui  comporta  une  telle 
empreints. 

Un  doe  symbolaa  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
demi^re  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
caa:  le  symbote  ^^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbola  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Mapa.  platee.  charts,  etc..  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Thoaa  too  large  to  be 
entirely  includad  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  comar.  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bonom,  aa  many  framea  aa 
raouired.  The  following  diagrams  illuatrata  ttia 
method: 


Laa  cartaa,  planches,  tableaux,  etc..  peuvent  atre 
fllmte  1  daa  taux  de  rMuction  diffarents. 
Lorsqua  la  document  eat  trop  grand  pour  itrm 
reproduit  en  un  saul  cllehA,  il  eat  filma  i  partir 
da  I'angla  sup^rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  i  droita. 
at  de  haut  en  baa,  en  prenant  la  nombre 
d'Imagaa  n^caaaaira.  Las  diagrammes  suivants 
iiluatrant  la  m^thodo. 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

r^'-fT  ^- 


*.i 


I: 


AND  CITY  LIFE   ^^ 


COUNTRY  LOVE 


1^5^. 


.  I 


ASJi   V  I  Ui.K    /■iU-.ilS 


4 


CIIARLKS    HKNRY    ST.    JOHN 


BOSTON 
A.  WILLIAMS  AND   COMPANY 

18K0 


-V— ^ 


Copyright,  iSSo, 
'iy  C.  H.  Sr.  John. 


n.r»t.t.-  rkrlr.Ky,ir  r,v.  ,,  rnnil,(ll 
IT«,.„,k  I,,  ,„|.„  w„v„,  X  Son.  C.,„l,rirtg.. 


•%rA<  r^«/.«A  of  this  little  book  n  the  "  sur- 
mml  ^  twenty  years'  ..^,W,«,^-M.  author's 
li'st  volume  having  appeared  in  jSjo.  The  first 
''Shty-six  pages,  and  also  from  pages  156  to  j6o 
'nclus  ^^^,^„^  ^^  irnure-poeJ,-ehSy 

Country  Love  and  City  Life, ' '  -  u>huh  met  with 
a  degree  of  favor  on  the  platform  that  .an  hardly  he 

stsn^dforpublu  reatation;  but  as  the  author  has 

tlVtT""'-  f '■"■''''>''  -A",  f^'  "-'  ventures 
to  put  them   ur.th  other  tnfies,  betu-een  the  covers  of 

a  book.  To  the  many  indulgent  friends  who  have 
matenally  encouraged  the  publication  of  these  pro- 
duei,oHs,he  author  tenders  his  sincere  thanksf and 
trusts  that  neither  they  nor  A.  may  be  painfull^  dZ 
appomted  in  the  result.  J  "J^ 'tis 

iii 


1 


i 


i 


i 


\- 


CONTENTS. 

Corporal  Day.               •.,,,,  t 

Episodes  of  City  Life. 

Matter  o'  Money g. 

The  Firit  Moustache.      .....  79 

Arethusa g 

Sir  Norman  of  the  Vale.           ....  go 
Miscellaneous  Poems. 

The  Kiver ._ 

N"* MS 

Sowing  and  Reaping ,  .^ 

A'cohol ,^g 

Steam. j 

AP^" 154 

Union. 

Betty  and  the  Bear ,.g 

Captain  Green's  Log-Book.    .        .       .       ,  i6i 

A  C'ouded  June. ,g. 

On  the  Brink ,(,. 

Signs  of  the  Times. ,^ 

The  Kingdom  of  Heaven.      ....  167 

Anastasia ,^ 

Y 


} 


r 

I 

■It 


VI 


Contents 


Gray  H»irt. 

Song  of  the  Ram. 

The  Seal  in  Frog  Pond. 

"Found  Dead." 

The  Evening  Paper,     . 

My  Rocking  Chair. 

Op'.y  Shadows.     . 

Uncle  Ben. 

Yearnings.  .         , 

The  Christmas  Hells. 
The  Child  Jesus. 

Gretchen.  .         , 

Deceived.    . 
Roses  and  Tliorns. 
The  Press. 
Emperor  Lead. 
To  a  Rejected  Poem. 
Keramikal  Kraze.     . 
Her  Right  to  Live.      . 
Heart  and  Soul.        , 
My  Hills.    .        ,       , 


169 
171 

'73 

'rS 

'77 
'79 
I, So 
iSi 

1S6 

1S7 

i.S,S 

190 

191 

•fi 
m 

aoo 


\ 


Corporal  Day. 


1 


I 


CORPORAL   DAY; 


i 


COUNTRY   LOVE  AND    CITY   LIFE. 

In  a  beautiful  region  of  valleys  and  hills, 

Of  broad-bosom'd  meadows  and  murmuring  rills. 

Is  a  fair  little  village,  whose  principal  street 

Is  shaded  with  elrvs,  whose  branches  meet 

Like  a  gothic  aisle,  where  the  heavens  are  seen 

In  glimpses  of  azure  through  hangings  of  green. 

A  spire  or  two  lift  their  fingers  above, 

\nd  silently  point  to  the  mansions  of  Love ; 

Two  or  three  stores  are  enough  to  supply 

The  people  with  all  they  desire  to  buy ; 

While  up  f.om  the  stream,  £    the  foot  of  the  hill, 

Comes  ever  the  rumbling  roll  of  the  mill. 


■  CORPOKAL    DAY. 

No  fiery  engine  g,«,,h„„d„,„j..        "■•• 

No,  even  ,he  nerves  or  .he  ,e,.g„p;,„,, 

The  . ,„„ber„„,  brain  „r, he  village  .„  .each 
Thego»p.ha.|.eep3,||.he„„i„^        ;"_ 

knowing !  ■'^        "" 

Two  or  three  newspapers  come  in  the  bags 

or  the^post,  when  it  co.es.  that  are  4ered  to 

Ere  the  next  ones  arrive  with  their  wonderful  lie. 

To  open  the  mnocent  villagers' eyes. 
Such  a  quiet  retreat,  where  sluml.r  is  sweet. 
Is  mdeed  very  rarely  one's  fortune  to  greet- 
So  vastly  unlike  where  the  children  of  fashion 
^^^ade  for  the  summer  to  squander  their  cash  inl 
Th.sbnght  little  Edo  they  never  come  near: 
^.J^^a.  there  is  naught  to  inveigle  them  there 

P^    broken-down  ..«..  .ho  foolishly  think 

W.n  remedy  n.ne  months  of  folly  and  sin, 
So  wuh  nothing  to  coax  the  shoddyfied  folk,. 
The  nanves  are  innocent,  guileless,  and  kind 
Tho   to  savng  their  pennies  .ome  little  inclined 


i 


BLACKBSRRY    CSifTRB.  j 

•Tis  a  dear  little,  quiet,  conservative  place. 
Where  life  is  a  joy,  not  a  mad  steeple-chas^ • 
Where  no  one  is  wealthy,  and  no  one  is  poor. 
And  nobody  fastens  his  windon  oi  door. 
And  the  girls  wear  the  fashion  of  one  yelr  before 
T.S  a  sweet,  healthy  place  ;  though,  perhaps,  to 

the  crusty. 
The  street  in  the  summer  may  seem  rather  dusty ; 
But  the  water  is  pure  and  the  meadows  are  green 
And.   indeed,  all   the  place   looks  uncommonly 

clean. 

A  neat  little  cottage  set  back  from  the  road 
Some  eight  or  ten  steps  was  the  peaceful  abode 
Of  a  fair  little  maiden  called  Caroline  Gray 
While  over  the  way  lived  Absalom  Day, 
Whose  heart,  as  they  say, 
Wa.s  linked  to  the  heart  of  Caroline  Gray 
At  least,  to  ,he  village  't  was  very  well  known  ; 

For  m  Blackberry  Centre  this  marvel  was  true. 

That  most  jieople  knew 

Much  more  of  their  neighbors'  affairs  than  their 
own  I 

Whatever  one  did.  or  said,  or  tried. 
Somehow  or  other,  was  sure  to  be  spied. 
There  was  n't  a  nun,  or  woman,  ur  child. 


^ 


4  COKPOKAL    DAY. 

Old  or  young,  sober  or  wild, 

From  the  day  he  was  born  to  the  hour  he  died, 

But  was  known  through  all  the  country-^de. 

There  was  n't  a  man  but  could  tell  to  a  mill 

The  exact  amount  in  his  neighbor's  till. 

And  whether  he  paid  his  doctor's  bill,  ' 

V/hat  insurance  was  on  his  life. 

And  how  much  money  I.e  gave  his  wife, 

Kow  much  longer  ran  his  lease. 

And  just  how  often  he  sold  his  grease  ! 

So,  of  course,  when  such  affairs  as  these 

Were  known  to  all,  both  great  and  small. 

The  thrilling  fact  that  Caroline  Gray 

Encouraged  the  hopes  of  Absalom  Day 

Was  as  plain  to  all  the  Blackberry  people. 

As  the  gilded  vane  on  the  Orthodox  steeple  I 

In  fact,  their  wedding  day  was  known 

To  everyone  —  but  them^^lves  a.one  ! 

But  neither  cared  a  single  cent 
For  all  that  was  said,  whatever  was  meant: 
They  went  their  ways, 

They  dreamed  tlieir  dreams, 
They  said  their  says, 

And  schemed  tlieir  schemes. 
And  oh  I  such  walks 


tovE's  roatrc  dksam. 


And  endless  talks. 
O'er  breezy  hills  —  by  haunted  streams  ! 
What  magical  castles,  sublime  and  grand, 
They  built  as  they  loite  'd  hand-in-hand  ! 
Not  all  of  them  airy  or  based  on  sand  ; 
For  thro'  the  bright  tears  that  biiided  their  eyes, 
They  saw  the  fair  summits  of  promise  rise  : 
They  saw  a  church,  and  before  the  rail, 
A  handsome  youth  and  a  maiden  \a\t : 
(The  maiden  jwle  was  Caroline  Gray, 
And  the  handsome  youth  was  Absalom  Day.) 
And  they  saw  a  farm  in  that  beautiful  land. 
With  waving  fields  on  every  hand. 
And  forests  deep,  and  orchards  rare. 
Whose  bloom  lent  fragrance  to  the  air ; 
And  a  beautiful  cottage,  where  roses  twine  ; 
And  a  horse  or  two,  and  a  couple  of  kine, 
And  ducks  and  geese,  and  a  (at  little  hog, 
And  a  snipperty-soapperty  i)oodle-dog  ! 
And  they  dreamt  that  all  these  things,  you  know, 
Belonged  to  Absalom  Day  —  and  Co. 
And  furthermore,  before  the  door 
Of  the  cottage,  they  saw — well,  less  than  a  score, 
Say  three  little  youngsters,  with  brightest  eye-., 
Down  in  a  mud-i)uddle  making  pies  I 


*  COItfORAL    DAY. 

Such  the  fair  vision  that  dazzled  their  eyes, 
Like  Jacob's  ladder  that  reached  to  the  skiw  | 

Ah  !  don't  we  remember  the  sweet  !ong-ago 
When  we,  now  so  solemn,  were  acting  just  so  •' 
When  down  in  the  fire-light,  far  „„  ,he  wane. 
Wc  counted  those  magical  castles-in-S,.ain 
Most  wondrous  creations!  delightful  as  dreams 
Of  Arcadian  valleys,  and  mountains,  and  str-ams. 
Where    naught    but    enchantment    the   eyes   may 
behold ;  ^ 

Where  the  rivulets  ripple  o'er  i.ebbles  of  gold  • 
Where    beauties    display    their    most     exquisite 

chaims, 
And  ,,leasures  enfold  us  in  rapturous  arms! 
No  dangers  appall  us -no  sorrows  enshroud- 
•N.>..th  the  burden  of  labor  wc  never  are  bow'd ; 
Where  all  we  may  sigh  for  we  sureiy  shall  gain. ' 
No  summit  so  lofty  we  cannot  attain  ; 
Where  honors  are  strewn  like  the  leaves  of  the 

grove. 
And  glories  Illume  us  wherever  we  myc. 
So  real  they  seem'd, 
W'e  >  new  not  we  <lream'd  ; 
We  felt  not  we  saw  in  the  embers,  that  gleam'd 


VILLAGE  COSStf.  • 

v^ith  a  glow  growing  dimmer 

Each  moment,  the  shimmer 
That  fashion'd  the  fanciful  visions  of  youth  ; 

Till  Time  told  the  truth,' — 
That  all  these  warm  timings  were  airy  and  vain  ; 

Yet  we  deem'd  Time  unjust, 
Till  we  touch'd  the  pale  relics  and   found   they 

were  dust ! 
When  we  strove  to  create  the  fair  vision  again  , 
But  vanish'd  for  aye  were  our  castles-in-Spaia  ! 

But  let  us  return  to  Absalom  Day. 
His  purse  was  short,  but  his  limbs  were  long  ; 
His  means  were  weak,  but  his  arms  were  strong; 

And  everyone  knew  he  scare?  could  pay 

His  current  exijenses,  while  Caroline  Gray 
Tai'ght,  for  years,  the  village  school, 

And  had  a  trifle  laid  away 

For  a  rainy  day  ; 
So  everyone  said  "she  would  be  a  fool 

Tew  throw  her  valoo'ble  hand  away 

On  sich  a  kcard  es  Abs'lum  Day  i  " 

But  that's  what  people  always  say. 
When  such  a  miserable,  silly  thing 
As  Ix)ve  puts  on  the  wedding  ring. 


CORPORAL    DAY. 


"  Love,  indeed!  I'd  like  to  know 

If  Love  can  make  the  old  mare  go, 

Or  fill  your  jKJckel,  or  till  your  farm, 

Or  keep  your  back  in  the  winter  warm, 

Or  darn  your  hose,  or  save  the  stitches 

On  frocks,  and  coats,  and  shirts,  and  —  that? 

If  so,  I'll  certainly  set  >/i_y  hat." 

This  is  the  way  you'll  mostly  find 

The  disappointed  ease  their  mind. 

Whose  chance  is  poorer  of  getting  a  bid, 

Than  finding  the  treasure  of  Captain  Kidd. 

Dut  Absalom  very  well  knew  indeed 
What  people  said;  for  could  n't  he  read 
The  scornful  looks  that  were  always  cast 
By  certain  people  whene'er  they  passed, 
With  envious  mutterings  such  as  this, 
(By  the  meet  in' -house  door  !) 

As  full  of  spite   as  a  seri)ent's  hiss: 
"And  /te  so  poorl 

But,  land  I  you  know 

Sich  fools  will  always  be  doin'  so."  ? 

"Oh,  yes!  "  j  iiinies  in  some  ancient  maid; 

"'Tis  a  wonder  to  me  she  isn't  afraid 

Of  comin'  to  want ;  you  would  i.'t  kitch  me  1 

Oh,  nol" 


TH£  COVNTRr  STORE. 

But  then  she  happen'd  to  see 
That  Absalom  caught  the  words  she  said, 
And  so  the  tip  of  her  nose  grew  red, 
Which  was  all  the  blushing  that  came  to  view. 
As  she  tries  to  stammer  out,   '  How  d'ye  do?" 
When  Absalom  Day, 
In  reply  may  say, 
"  Not  much  the  better,  old  maid,  for  you  !  " 

I've  nothing  to  say  'gainst  church  or  steeple, 
Against  the  pastor  or  yet  the  people; 
But  this,  I  think,  you'll  find  the  case, 
That  there  is  no  more  likely  place 
For  finding  out  the  latest  news. 
Than  down  among  the  narrow  i)ews. 

Now  Abialom  Day,  like  a  Scottish  laird, 
Was  certainly  poor  and  proud  ; 

But  his  was  a  heart  that  could  n't  oe  scared, 
Antl  a  head  that  could  n't  be  bowed. 
He  was  only  a  clerk  in  the  country  store. 
Where  all  was  sold  —  and  a  little  more : 
Pins  and  pijjcs,  and  tea  and  nails, 
Sugp.r  and  ribbon,  flannel  and  jwils. 
Boots  and  butter,  a^.i  tops  and  ta|w, 
Whiting  and  blacking,  molxsses  a.id  crajic. 


>i(iMw«*^«»*«<P<«Mn">aaa«a 


lo 


CORPOKAC    DAY. 


Corn  and  crockery,  leather  and  cheese. 
Syrup  for  babes  and  poison  for  fleas, 
And  strings  of  onions  and  pens  and' ink 
And.  out  of  a  demijohn,  something  to  drink  ! 
VVhere  onceinawhile  the  stage-coach  atopp'd. 
And  down  a  hungry  mail-bag  dropp'd, 
Which  Calvin  More,  who  kept  the  store. 
With  dark,  mysterious  visage  bore 
Behind  the  counter,  into  a  niche, 
Sacred  to  letters,  papers,  and  "sich." 
While  pretty  gossips  waited  without. 

Loudly  ribbon'd  and  lavishly  curl'd,  _ 
Half-expecting  and  half-in-doubt,  — 
Wriggling,  giggling,  roguish  romps, 
Charmingly  guiltless  of  all  the  pomps, 

^i  not  the  vanities  of  the  world. 
•Twas  the  grand  exchange  of  scandal  and  news 
And  a  wonderful  place  to  cure  the  blues ; 
For  there  from  morn  till  nine  or  ten, 
You'd  generally  find  the  leading  men,  — 
The  men  who  held  official  station, 
(You'd  think,  indeed,  they  .uled  ihe  nation  -) 
Deacon  Dotkl.  and  Father  Hobb. 
And  queer  old  Uncle  Nathan  Cobb, 
Captain  Keene.  of  martial  mien. 


SBEKS  HtS  FORTUNE. 


It 


And  the  village  infidel,  Orville  Green. 
With  lesser  lights  mixed  in  between. 
You'd  see  them  all  some  frosty  night 
When  snow  is  crisp  and  stars  are  bright. 
As  round  the  red-hot  stove  they  sit. 
And  smoke,  and  chew,  and  talk,  and  spit. 
And  spin  their  yarns  of  this  and  that. 
From  Hobbses'  farm  to  Cobbses'  cat  I 

Such  was  the  place  where  Absalom  Day 
Wore  the  prime  of  his  youth  away; 
Till  all-at-once  he  began  to  say, 
"This  kind  of  life  will  never  pay  ! 
I'll  toss  my  bundle  upon  my  back, 
And  off  I'll  tramp  to  the  railroad-track. 
And  take  the  cars  for  Boston,  where 
I'll  make  my  fortune,  and  then  appear 
Sudden,  some  morn,  to  charming  Carrie, 
And  ask  her  right  away  to  marry ! 
And  then  how  all  the  village  will  stare! 
Ha,  ha !  who  says  that  Absalom  Day 
Doesn't  know  how  to  make  his  way?" 
Ar.d  then  would  Alwalom  nod  and  wink. 
And  laugh  in  his  sleeve,  till  his  eyes  did  blink 
In  the  bright  eflTulgence  of  his  dreams. 
His  radiant  hopes  and  brilliant  schemes 


18 


CORPOKAL    DAY. 


So  time  wore  on  from  week  to  week, 
Till  Absalom  Day  procured  the  cheek 
About  his  great  designs  to  si)eak. 
'Twos  a  heavenly  night ! 
The  moon  shone  bright 
Over  the  sliimb'ring  trees, 
And  the  dreamy  scent 
Of  the  violets  blent 
With  the  freshness  of  the  breeze; 
And  the  twinkling  stars 

But  let  them  twink; 
For  all  I  really  want  to  say 
Is  simi)ly  this,  that  Absalom  Day 
Was  going  away,  and,  of  course,  the  pink 
Died  out  in  the  cheeks  of  Caroline  Gray, 
As  they  stooil  entwined  in  a  kind  of  a  wiy 
That  some,  i)crhaps,  very  silly  may  think. 
They  vow'd  to  love,  and  they  pron-.ised  to  write. 
And  i.ledged  to  dream  cf  each  other  at  night. 
And  they  said  such  love  could  never  be  bought 
For  gold  or  silver,  —and  so  they  thought; 
And  bo,  {)oor  things  ! 
They  barter'd  their  rings, 
And  bade  each  other  adieu. 


I 


SKES  THE  CITY. 


IL 


Smiles  and  blushes  and  sighs  and  tears 
Write  the  record  of  human  years  ; 
And  all  our  sorrows  and  joys  and  cares. 
Gains  and  losses  and  hopes  and  fears 
Fade  in  blushes  and  sig.'s  and  tears. 


•  « 


Bricks  and  mortar  and  dust  and  stones, 
Crowded  streets  and  aching  bones. 
Nothing  to  do  and  not  much  cash, 
Arj  I  board  to  "ay  for  attic  and  "hash;" 
No  wonder  Absalom  thought  himself  rash, 
As  he  toss'd  and  turn'd  on  his  sleepless  bed, 
With  a  burden'd  heart  and  an  aching  head. 
Yet  never  a  word  he  dared  to  write 
To  Carrie  Gray  of  his  serious  plight  • 
Nor  did  he  dream  of  her  scarce  a  night, 
But  he  was  sure  to  'wake  in  a  fright ! 
Now  was  the  time  to  test  and  settle 
The  strength  and  weight  of  Absalom's  mettle ; 


>J 


'*  COMfiOKAL    DAY. 

Now  w- the  time  to  gauge  hi,  mind. - 
Whether  'twas  one  of  the  stronger  kind- 
Whether  his  bark  would  breast  the  wave' 
Or  speedily  sink  in  a  nameless  grave 
No  friend  had  he  to  help  him  then, 
As  friends  are  only  for  fortunate  men'; 
And  still  too  proud  to  tell  his  grief 
lo  the  one  who  would  gladly  grant  relief. 
There  was  the  battle  for  him  to  fight. 

That  call'd  out  all  his  mind  and  might; 
There  was  the  trial  for  him  to  meet, 

The  tempter  to  trample  beneath  his'feetl 

•Tis  easy  to  guide  the  Ixirk  aright 

When  winds  are  fair  and  skies  are  bright  • 

But  when  the  Storm-king  rules  the  wave  ' 

Then  must  the  pilot  be  skill'd  and  brave! 

He  is  a  hero  who  risks  his  lit 

For  his  country's  good,  on  the  field  of  .trife ; 

He  IS  a  hero  who  bears  his  flag, 

Till  naught  remains  but  a  tatter'd  rag; 

He  is  a  hero  who  lifts  his  arm 

To  shield  his  friend  from  fatal  harm; 
He  IS  a  hero  who  buffets  the  wave 
To  pl.ick  a  si;ul  from  a  watery  grave  - 
Who  climbs  a  ladder  with  stifled  brelth 


KAST-WlHDIHtSS,  15 

To  snatch  a  babe  from  a  fiery  death  I 
Yes ;  heroes  these  supreme  and  grand, 
The  p.ide  and  boast  of  the  proudest  land. 
But  greater  than  all  is  the  nameless  youth. 
Whose  only  shield  is  the  sj^tless  truth, — 
Who  laughs  to  scorn  the  lempter's  power. 
And  stands  by  the  right  in  danger's  hour! 

'Twas  a  rainy  night ;  in  fact,  all  day 
The  rain  came  down  in  a  drizzling  way ; 
And  the  wind  was  east,  ..nd  chilly  at  that. 
And  everyone  felt  af  cross  as  a  cat,  — 
When  every  jaw  with  a  hollow  stump 
Did  ache  and  shoot  and  twinge  and  Jump; 
And  you  know  it  requires  the  saintliest  grace 
To  be  calm  and  sweet  with  a  swollen  face. 
And  some  with  "dyspepsy  "  groan'd  and  growl'd, 
And  some  with  "  rheumatiz  "  hopp'd  and  howl'd, 
And  others  had  bunions,  corns,  and  sprains, 
<NAnd  all  the  hundred  thousand  pains 
,^»That  plague  mankind  whene'er  it  rains ! 
Oi'Twas  just  the  weather  you  "  feel  like  fight,"— 
vVhen  sweet  is  bitter  and  day  is  night. 
And  nothing  at  all  will  come  out  rigiit. 
'Twas  just,  in  fact,  that  kind  of  day 


i 


i6 


CORPORAL    DAY. 


When  some  men  scold  their  wives,  by  way 
Of  letting  off  their  pent-up  spleen,  — 
(Which  all  must  own  is  horrid  mean!) 
And  fret  and  fume  and  fuss,  and  say 

Whatever  she  docs  is  sure  to  hi  wrong, 

The  tea  is  weak,  the  butter  is  strong, 
The  beef  is  burnt,  the  mutton  is  raw, 
The  pudding— oh,  pshaw!  'tis  not  worth  a  straw! 

And  why  do  you  look  so  sour?  and  why 

But  here,  poor  thing,  she  begins  to  cry; 
And  none  but  a  brute  could  bluster  and  blow, 
When  those  bright  little  tears  Iwgin  to  flow 

As  Deacon  Dodd  onre  feelingly  said 
About  his  Betsy,  long  since  dead  • 
"If  ever  an  angel  loved  a  man. 
That  angel,  sir,  was  Betsy  Ann  ! 
If  I  hapijen'd  to  scold  her,  she  was  so  meek, 
(Which  the  Deacon  did  seven  times  a  week  !) 
She  'd  clap  her  apron  up  to  her  eye, 
And  never  say  nawthin',  but  on'y  cry." 
But,  ladies,  jjerhaps  you  'd  like  to  be  told 
That  Deacon  Dodd,  like  other  men. 
Waited  a  year,  and  married  again; 
But  he  married  a  most  inveterate  s<  old  I 
So  now  it's  the  Deacon's  turn  to  be  meek. 


Hn  CITY  HOME. 

As  he  gets  well  rasp'd  from  week  to  week  ; 
But  rather  than  open  his  head  he  'd  burst ! 
He  wishes  the  second  was  with  the  first; 
But  as  she 's  as  tough  as  a  hickory  limb, 
No  doubt  she  '11  live  to  say  of  him, — 
"If  ever  a  saint  the  footstool  trod. 
That  man,  that  saint,  was  Deacon  Dodd!" 


»7 


'Twas  a  rainy  night,  and  Absalom  Day 

Was  just  as  tired  as  he  could  be ; 
He  had  searched  since  dawn  in  every  way, 

And  never  a  prosi)e<fl  could  he  see,  — 
Except  tbe  prospedt  of  roofs  and  rows 
Of  chimney-i»ots  and  fluttering  "clo'es," 
And  a  ])atch  of  sky  above  his  head,  — 
A  yard -and -a-half  of  dirty  lead  ! 
'Twas  down  in  one  of  those  blighted  streets. 
Where  "  l>oarders  wanted   '  the  stranger  greets 
In  many  a  window,  and  where  you'll  find 
"  Doctors' "  shingles  of  every  kind  : 
Cures  by  lifting  and  cures  by  shaking. 
Cures  by  boiling  and  cures  by  baking, 
Cures  by  drcri«:hing  and  cures  by  drugging. 
Cures  by  pounding  ami  cures  by  hugging, 
Cures  in  the  light  by  electric  spark. 


i8 


CORPORAL     DAY. 


And  cures  by"  spirits"  in  the  dark; 
While  others  cure  all  human  ills 
With  poison  —in  imperceptible  pills! 
The  very  home,  it  seems  to  be, 
Where  Humbug  signs  itself  "  M.  D." 

Here,  in  a  boarding-house,  Absalom  ate 
His  hash  and  pie,  and  daily  met 
A  score  or  so  of  wretched  creatures 
With  hungry  looks  and  wasted  features, 
Who  had  n't  the  cheek  to  csk  the  master 
Whether  the  dish  was  hash  or  plaster. 
Who  could  n't  afford  to  be  unruly, 
Or  even  hint  the  beef  was  <•  bully." 
Where  sour  sauce  distorts  the  eye. 
And  painted  paste  is  "  punkin-pie," 
And  soda-biscuits,  green  as  lizards, 
Take  the  coating  off  their  gi/zards ; 
And  where,  like  Egy,,fs  bony  guest' 
Dyspeiwia  grins  among  the  rest ! 

Ah  !  how  unlike  his  boyhood's  home. 
Beneath  the  blue,  unclouded  dome,  — 
Amonr  the  hills!-, he  farm-house  quaint, 
With  time  grown  gray  and  lack  of  paint; 
The  cosy  roon  and  trun.ne-bed, 
With  snowy  sheet  and  i>atchwork  spread. 


THE  COVIfTRY  BOY.  19 

And  well  washed  floor  and  rustic  chair. 

And  oi)en  window  that  let  in  the  air 

Laden  with  sweets  of  flower  and  tree. 

Warble  of  bird  and  murmur  of  bee, 

And  a  far-away  view,  wh.re  the  mountains  rise 

Like  great  green  steps  to  the  liending  skies  1 

And  how  unlike  the  wholesome  "  board  •* 

That  even  "  the  Centre"  could  afford  •. 

The  yellow  corn-cake,  hot  and  sweet, 

And  golden  butter,  —  a  princely  treat ! 

The  bowl  of  cream,  the  berries  blue 

From  yonder  bank  that  drijis  with  dew ; 

And  best  of  all  to  souls  that  feel, 

A  sainted  mot"..er  bless'd  the  meal. 

Ah,  how  unlike,  indeed  ! But  when 

He  thought  of  the  lives  of  mighty  men. 
Who  left  their  homes,  and  fought  their  way, 
He  clench'd  his  fist,  did  Absalom  Day, 
And  cried,  ••  I'll  fight  as  well  as  they  I  " 

Alas  !  for  the  wonderful  country-boy,  — 
His  father's  pride  and  his  mother's  joy,  — 
When  \o  the  mighty  marts  of  trade 
He  comes,  in  Sunday  best  arrayed, 
And  in  the  crowded,  lonely  streets, 


>o 


CORPORAL    DAY. 


No  fiieiid's  familiar  visage  greets  ! 
And,  worse  than  all,  there  seems  to  be 
No  |)lace  for  such  a  hand  as  he : 
Although  equipp'd  for  any  toil, 
From  running  a  bank  to  gauging  oil, 
Yet,  strange  to  say,  where  er  he  goes. 
Some  i)ert  official  pulls  his  nose, 
By  saying,  with  a  saucy  leer: 
There 's  no  one  wants  to  see  you  here. 

Each  night,  returning  to  his  room, 
His  heart  o'erwhelm'd  in  deep'ning  gloom. 
His  roll  of  greenbacks  growing  slimmer. 
The  luster  of  his  " store-clothes' '  dimmer. 
He  scarce  i)erceives  the  faintest  glinnner 
This  siile  or  t'other  of  the  tomb  ! 

Ah  !  city  friends,  don't  slight,  I  pray, 
The  country-lad  that  comes  )u.ir  way 
Uncultured  he,  no  doubt,  and  shy; 
Hut  look  in  the  depths  of  his  honest  eye 
And  see  the  truth  and  purity  there, 
The  manly  j>«ri>^.s€,  the  wort!;  that  will  wear, 
And  traits  of  charader  rich  and  rare  ! 
I5e  civd,  at  least ;  the  answer  you  give 
To  his  mild  request,  in  his  mind  may  livf 


THE  BOY  OF  THS  PERIOD. 


flt 


To  please  or  plague  him  all  of  his  life,  — 
A  soothing  balm  or  a  poison'd  knife  ! 
"  Kind  words  are  cheap,"  says  the  provj-rb  old  ; 
*Tis  false  !  or  why  are  they  dearer  than  gold  ? 
Don't  blast  his  hope,  or  crush  his  heart, 
Or  cruelly  cause  his  pride  to  smart ; 
For,  friends,  believe  me  this  is  true. 
He  may  be  rough,  uncultured,  shy, 
With  blushing  cheek  and  downcast  eye, 
But  yet,  that  boy  you  deign  to  view, 
That  boy  is  just  as  proud  as  you  1 
And  he  who  laughs  at  the  lad  knows  naught 
Of  the  diamond-seeds  of  Work  and  Thought, 
Or  the  vein  of  gold  in  his  being  wrought. 
For  who  are  the  m^n  that  rule  the  State,  — 
The  Rich,  the  Wise,  the  Good,  the  Great? 
Were  they  not  nurtured  'mong  the  hills, 
The  blooming  fields  and  sparkling  rills  ? 
Or  where  the  pines  their  tassels  shake. 
Or  where  the  wild  sea-binows  break? 
Not  down  in  narrow  streets  and  lanes, 
Where  Folly  sweeps  and  Want  complains ; 
Where  hydra-headed  monsters  glare, 
And  noisome  vapors  taint  the  air  ; 
Where  human  bears  and  tigers  growl, 


ai 


CORPOKAL    DAY. 


And  human  wolves  and  foxes  prowl  I 
No  city  hot-house  plants  are  they, 
Papp'd  and  coddled  every  day, 
Afiaid  of  rain  and  S!«ow  and  sleet, 
Bcnumb'd  with  cold  and  baked  with  heat. 
And  scared  to  damp  their  dainty  feet ! 
No  city  puppets,  pale  and  thin. 
Familiar  from  their  birth  with  sin ; 
Who  call  their  fathers  "Gov,"  "Old  Chap,' 
And  in  his  face  their  fingers  snap  ! 
Vanish'd  the  dewy  bloom  of  Youth, 
Crush'd  out  the  sacred  soul  of  Truth , 
Eager  to  grasp  the  poison'd  cup 
That  Pleasure's  feverish  hands  hold  up  I 
Easy  prey  of  pimp  and  knave, 
Folly's  pupil.  Fashion's  slave, 
Gambler's  victim,  harlot's  jest. 
Trickster's  tool,  policeman's  jiest,  — 
Drinking,  smoking,  swaggering,  sneaking, 
Vilest  language  ever  speaking  : 
Virtue-killers,  soul-destroyers. 
Cheating,  pilfering  their  employers,  — 
Such  the  wretci.-ed  youths  you  meet 
Crowding  every  city  street ! 
Glance  o'er  the  list  of  mighty  names 


THE  MBN  WHO  KULS. 

That  on  the  roll  of  honor  flamei. 
And  you  will  find  the  vast  array 
Did  from  the  meadows  wend  their  way; 
Stout,  stalwart  sons  of  toil  were  they, 
Who  slept  all  night  and  wrought  all  day. 
Who  breathed  the  purest  air  tliat  blows 
O'er  blooming  fields  and  driven  snows : 
Lithe  of  limb  and  stout  of  heart, 
Ready  to  take  the  hero's  part ; 
Ready  to  battle  for  the  right, 
Ai  David  left  his  flocks  to  fight 
Philistia's  boastful  man-of-might. 
And  there,  defenceless  and  alone, 
Destroy'd  an  army  with  ■•  stone; 
So  now  you  find  in  evcrv  town. 
The  men  nho  bring  the  giants  down. 
The  men  who  guide  the  i>eople's  wills 
Were  nurtured  'mong  the  rocks  and  rilL  ! 

But  where  is  Absalom  ?     Ijct  us  sec  ; 
In  bed,  I  guess,  or  he  ought  to  be. 
He  said  his  prayers  and  closed  his  eyes, 
In  hope  that  when  the  morn  should  rise. 
Some  help  may  come  from  earth  or  skies. 
Oh  I  what  so  welcome,  sweet,  and  kind 
As  dre-'mless  Sleep  to  a  troubled  mind  ! 


»3 


*4 


COKPOKAL    DAY. 


III. 


Peate  t  Are  you  dreamt n^^  of  peace  t 
77iere  ^s  peace  alone  in  the  grave  ; 
Anil  the  battle  with  It'roni^  must  never  cease. 
While  there  ts  a  Soul  to  save  / 
Oh  !  place  your  ear  on  the  Jfeart, 
Physician  of  Human  Life, 
And  you  7/  find  the  need  of  a  Afi^^htier  Art 
Than  yours  in  the  terrible  strife  ! 
Tlie  ocean  is  suit  with  tears. 
The  wind  is  Humanity's  moan, 
Tlie  earth  is  the  dust  of  a  million  years, 
Ami  every  Soul  is  alone  ! 


•  * 
« 


Oh  !  there  are  seasons  when  the  Past 
Comes  o'er  the  soul  like  shadows  cxst 
By  drifting  clouds  o'er  summer  seas, 
Whos^  blue  waves,  crested  by  the  breeze, 
Grow  gray  awhile  and  dark  and  dun, 
As  if  they  mourn'd  the  absent  sun. 


J^ 


ALONE. 

The  soul  grows  sick  w^n  pensive  pain, 
As  halC-remember'd  scenes  arise, 
And  faces  flit  before  our  eyes. 
And  words  of  love  ant'  lines  of  song. 
And  deeds  and  days,  forgotten  long. 

Float  back  in  airy  forms  again. 

Float  back ;  but  like  the  fairy  biro 
That  trembles  o'er  the  honey'd  leaf,  — 
A  winged  emerald,  bright  and  brief, 

That  melts  ere  one  can  say  the  word,  — 

These  visions  fade,  —  a  gleam  —  no  more, 

And  leave  us  lonelier  than  before  ! 

In  Blackberry  Centre,  you  know,  we  left 
A  dear  little  girl  of  her  lover  bereft : 
How  slowly  and  sadly  the  days  went  by. 
You  could  plainly  read  in  her  jiensive  eye. 
But  what  gave  Caroline  most  concern 
Was  to  think  that  nothing  o{ him  could  she  learn. 
They  j)romised  to  dream  of  each  other  at  night, 
And  every  day  a  letter  to  write  ; 
But  now  some  weeks  had  pass'd  away. 
With  never  a  word  from  Absalom  Day  ! 
She  knew  he  had  "  reach'd  the  city  all  right ;  " 
For  he  sent  a  message  the  very  next  night. 


»S 


36 


CORPOKAL    DAY. 


With  his  street-address  and  the  words  above, 
(But  never  a  line  or  lisp  of  I  jve  !) 
On  a  scrap  of  paper,  by  Caleb  Skeggs, 
Who  was  "deown  to  Ilawst'n  scllin'  eggs." 
But  whether  since  then  'twas  ill  or  well 
With  Abbalom  Day,  she  could  not  tell. 
Sometimes  a  spark  of  jealousy  came 
And  burn'd  in  her  heart  with  a  greenish  flame: 
"  What !  can  it  be  i>ossible  he  has  met 
Some  city  belle  !     Could  he  thus  fo.^  ;t, 
S   soon,  the  sacred  vows  he  niaile  ? 
Can  love  so  bright  so  quickly  fade  ? 
Oh,  no  !  oh,  no  !  it  cannot  l)e  ; 
My  Absalom  still  is  true  to  me  !  " 
And  then,  with  her  head  on  her  hand  at  rest, 
She  watch'd  the  sun  sink  down  in  the  west 
And  the  birds  in  pairs  come  home  to  their  nest. 
And  then  she  gazed  with  a  litjuid  eye 
On  the  hilb  they  climb'd  in  the  days  gone  by. 
And  she  thought  of  the  schemes  t..ey  had  plann'd 

for  life, 
When  she  slioulii  be  Somebody's  own  little  wife  ; 
And  the  stars  look'd  sad  as  they  throbb'd  on  high, 
And  the  night-winds  wafted  a  gentle  sigh. 
And  the  page  she  was  reading  while  yet  'twas  day 


SHt  KltOWS. 


»7 


Was  pucker'd  and  damp'd  in  a  singular  way  ; 

For  she  guess'd,  with  womanly  instindt  well, 

The  trouble  that  Aljsalom  dare  not  tell. 

She  knew  how  slende;  the  chance  he  had,  — 

A  motlest,  friendless,  country-lad,  — 

To  reach  the  goal  and  grasp  the  prize 

That  dazzifs  so  many  ambitious  eyes. 

Well  she  knew  of  the  struggle  and  strife 

For  the  gilded  bubble  of  city  life; 

And  she  saw  him  jostled  from  side  to  side, 

Weary  in  limb  and  wounded  in  pride. 

And  what,  perhaijs,  was  worse  than  all. 

She  knew  his  means  were  growing  small ! 

"  Whether  it  please  him,"  she  said,  "  or  not," 

'  Twill  show,  at  lea-.t,  he  isn't  forgot." 

So  ere  that  night  she  slept  a  wink, 

She  took  her  pen  and  jwper  and  ink. 

And  wrote  such  a  beautiful,  tender  note, 

As  might  m.ikc  your  heart  leap  up  in  your  throat. 


We  flatter  ourselves,  we  bearded  }>ny<5, 
That  we  are  deep,  and  can  conceal 

All  that  we  know  and  do  and  feel, 

Our  business  sorrows  and  club-house  joys,  — 
From  the  innocent  creatures  who  make  our  tt  \; 


28 


COKFORAL     DAY. 


But  believe  me,  friend,  that  they  can  see 
Right  through  and  through  both  you  and  me  I 
As  if  your  clove  or  cardamom-seed 
Could  hide  thy  guilt  in  wine  and  weed  I 
Ah,  foolish  mortal,  do  you  sui)|)ose 
That  only  to  smell  the  scent  of  a  rose. 
And  not  tne  otlor  that 's  in  your  clothes. 
She's  got  that  sweet  little,  jxirt  little  nose? 
Pshaw !  your  screen  is  a  jKine  of  glass. 
Through  which  she  sees  that  you  are  — alas ! 
hy  no  means  the  lion  you  think  within. 
But  a  long-ear'd  thing  in  a  lion's  skin  ! 

No,  no,  my  friend ;  don't  try  to  hide 
Your  fear,  or  shame,  or  sorrov   or  pride 
From  the  rib  that  was  taken  out  of  your  side. 
'Tis  he'--,  to  help  you  in  life,  and  to  share 
Not  only  your  joy,  but  also  your  care. 
The  problem  that  gives  you  weeks  of  pain. 
She  may  solve  with  a  flxsh  of  her  finer  brain. 
She  may  not  reason  as  well  as  you ; 
But  her  scissors  can  cut  the  knot  in  two. 

Let  no  dark  secret  ever  arise. 
Like  an  evil  spiri    in  love's  disguise  j 
Unless,  indeed,  you  hapinrn  to  be 
A  brother  of  some  fraternity  ; 


THE  SECKST  OP  HASONRY. 


»9 


For  then,  perhaps,  she  might  let  it  ou.. 

Whenever  she  felt  inclined  to  ix)ut. 

As  the  story  is  told  of  a  mason's  wife. 

Who  plagued  him  almost  out  of  his  life. 

To  learn  the  secret,  whatever  it  be, 

••  Ye  mystycke  Wonie  "  of  M  usonry. 

Said  he,  "  Now,  Mary,  if  1  should  tell 

The  awful  secret,  I  know  very  well. 

That  when  you're  mad,  my  darling  dear, 

...  U  rip  it  out  that  all  may  hear." 

Said  ■  le,  "  O  Edward,  never,  never  ! 

Twill  sleep  in  my  heart's  recess  forever. 

Tell  me  —  tell  me,  Edward,  and  I 

For  thee  will  live  and  for  thee  will  die  !  " 

"  Well  then,  my  love,  't  is  only  this".  .  .  . 

(But  here  she  plante<i  a  lusciou:^  kiss 

On  the  lips  that  really  seem'd  to  burn 

With  the  wonderful  word  she  was  soon  to  learn  :) 

"  Now,  Mary,  remember  my  woe  or  weal 

Depends  on  the  word  I'm  about  to  reveal." 

"O  Edward,  dearest,  you  may  dejwnd 

I'll  keep  it  close  till  life  shall  end  !  " 

"  You  've  said  enough  ;  —  now  listen,  my  dear  ! 

The  awful  secret ....  Hark  ! ....  do  I  hear 

A  whisper  ? .  .  .  No  ! . .  .  that  Masonry  screens  — 


3° 


CORPORAL    DAY, 


Hush  ! ....  is  Faha,  the  I^tin  for  beans !  " 
Scarcely  a  week  had  jiass'ti  away 
Krc  Mary  got  mad,  and  what  did  she  say? 
Why  she  halloo'd  out  that  all  may  hear, 
' 'Fhijcbe  and  beans  !     I' ve  got  you  there .' ' ' 

But  now  to  Absalom  let  us  fly, 
Who  slept  that  niglit  as  sweet  as  a  child  ; 

And  when  he  awoke  the  sun  was  high. 
And  Nature's  self  rejoiced  and  smiled  ; 
And  Absalom  felt  refresh'd  and  bright. 
His  head  was  clear  and  his  heart  was  light : 
He  seem'd  to  hear,  down  deip  in  his  soul, 
A  whisper  of  hoi)e,  like  the  far-away  roll 
Of  an  unseen  sea,  or  the  soft  refrain 
Of  the  silvery  How-bells,  Turn  again  ! 
'I'urn  again,  Absalom,  turn  again  ! 

.S<  arce  had  he  dress'd  when  the  i»ostman  came. 
And  Absalom  heard  him  shout  his  name, 
And  Absalom  shouted  back  the  .same ; 
When  down  he  raced  with  a  rosy  hue, 

And  found  a  letter  from you  know  who  I 

'Twas  one  of  those  long-and-narrow  billies, 
That  smelt  of  rose  and  wa.s  stamp'd  with  lilies, — 
A  (  unning  wreath  around  a  "  C." 


TH£  FIRST  LOVE-LETTER. 


» 


"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Ab,  "  this  note 's  for  me  ! " 
Then,  with  three  strides,  he  climb'd  the  stairs, 

And  shut  and  lock'd  his  chamber-door. 
And  when  the  cover  he  wildly  tears, 

A  ten-dollar  bill  slips  out  on  the  floor. 
Then  Absalom  he  went  crazy,  you  see,  — 

As  mad  as  a  maniac  over  the  letter  ; 
For  he  pinn'd  it  on  to  his  pillow,  that  he 

Could  hug  and  kiss  it  all  the  better. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  freaks  before  ? 
Well ;  such  is  Love,  — till  the  honeymoon's  o'er. 
Ii  he  read  it  once  he  reatl  it  at  least 
A  hundred  times  ;  in  faifl,  't  was  a  feast. 
He  read  it  sitting  and  standing  and  lying; 
He  read  it  singing  and  laughing  and  crying ; 
He  read  it  from  top  to  bottom,  and  then 
He  rea»l  it  from  bottom  to  top  again  ! 
He  read  it  so  ofte.i,  indeed,  that  he 
Forgot  his  breakfast,  dinner,  and  tea; 
And  the  fun  of  it  wxs,  that,  over  the  way, 
Two  or  three  girls. 
Fixing  their  curls. 
Were  splitting  their  sides  at  Absalom  Day  ! 
For,  not  l>eing  used  to  closing  his  bliml. 
They  saw,  and  thought  he  was  out  of  his  mind  ! 


3» 


CORPORAL    DAY. 


But  •'  niver  a  bit,"  as  Paddy  would  say, 
He  was  only  crazed  in  an  amative  way,  — 
His  soul  was  stirr'd  — he  was  wonderful  glad  \ 
For  this  was  the  first  love-letter  he  'd  had  : 

"  Dearest  Absalom:       «       ♦       «      f^,,^^ 
UTii/e  grass  is  green  ami  skies  are  l>lue  ! ' '  cty. 
"*   *  "So  never  despair,  with  strength  and  health. 
Something  beyond  the  reach  of  loealth. 
Rain  must  fall,  and  the  heavens  must  frown. 
And  flowers  must  fade,  and fiehU  groiif  brown. 
And  riches  are  winged  like  thistlc-do7i<n. 
From  under  the  rocky  ribs  of  the  earth 
Come  light  and  heai  of  the  winter  hearth  ; 
And  up  from  the  deep,  dark  caves  of  the  sea 
Are  brought  the  pearls  of  the  kings  to  be; 
And  out  of  the  flint  they  crush  the  gold. 
And  water  with  sweat  the  seed  in  the  mould; 
And  the  sivord  that  never  is  drawn  from  sheath 
Shall  win  no  worth  the  heai'ens  beneath  ! 
Then  hold  thee  up  with  a  manly  brow. 
And  meet  the  storm  that  is  driving  now. 
As  long  as  there  are  millions  to  feed, 
Afillions  to  clothe,  and  millions  to  lead. 
So  long  must  the  Plough,  *he  Loom,  and  the  Pen 


\ 


HIS  REPLY. 


u 


Await  the  guidance  of  earnest  men. 
Only  be  true  to  yourself  and  the  Right, 
And,  chasing  the  steps  of  retreating  Night, 
Will  rise  the  Gi:  er  of  life  and  light. ' ' 

No  vi-ftor  that  ever  redcem'd  his  land, 
No  hero  that  comes  with  a  rescuing  hand. 
No  prophet  that  ever  the  future  unroU'd, 
No  angel  that  came  to  the  seer  of  old. 
E'er  brought  to  a  soul  such  a  healing  ray 
As  di<i  this  letter  to  Absalom  Day  ! 
So  when  he  was  cool  enough  to  write, 

He  seized,  with  tremulous  hand,  his  pen, 

Resolve<l  to  answer  it  there  and  then. 
And  send  it  off  that  very  night ! 
But  writing  was  not  his  forte,  you  know,  — 
The  lines  were  laljor'd  anil  the  words  moved  slow. 
Not  but  the  "  hand  "  was  easy  reading, — 
A  fa<5l  that  show'd-  his  humble  breeding,  — 
A  hand  to  enter  sugars  and  teas. 
Butter  and  eggs  and  lard  and  cheese. 
Pork  and  molasses  and  things  like  these,  ^ 
In  sooth,  a  very  good  hand  to  teach ; 

But  not  a  hand. 

You  understand. 


34 


CORPORAL    DAY. 


For  tropes  and  flowers  and  figures  of  speech. 
So  when  the  letter  was  all  complete, 
(Although  'twas  plain  enour;h  and  neat,) 
It  had  a  kind  of  a  grocery  look, 
As  i  f  '  t  were  torn  from  the  order-book. 
He  told  her  how  hard  it  was  to  find 
"A  \)\mc  Just  suitfii  to  his  mind." 
As  if,  ix)or  boy,  't  was  his  to  choose, 
Ant*  this  accept  or  that  refuse  ! 
(But  where  *s  the  lad  that  dares  to  tell 
The  naked  truth  alniut  himscl', 
Or  to  his  lady-love  disclose 
How  many  a  time  they  \m\\  his  nose !) 
He  gave  her  an  inkling  of  city-life. 
Its  mirth  and  madness,  bustle  and  strife, 
Its  splendor  and  scjualor,  pleasure  and  woe 
Rolling  along  in  endless  flow.  .  .  . 
*Twas  a  very  sensible  letter  indeed. 
And  one  that  a  sensible  girl  could  read 
With  pleasure  and  profit,  —  no  promises  rash 
Al>out  "coming  cvcnt-s,"  or  nonsense  and  trxsh 
Al)out  Cupids  and  that ;  and  as  for  the  bill, 
"Pwas  droppM,  as  it  were,  in  a  grorery-till ; 
For  he  wrote  a  receipt,  in  a  business-like  way. 
And  sign'd  \i,  pro  forma,  "  Aiisalom  Day." 


THS  tlULD  oy  D£A  TH. 


3S 


IV. 

*Tit  the  Fiflit  of  Death/  and  'twas  War's  red 
hand 

That  piiugh'd  the  furrows  and  sow' d  the  grain  ; 
jt  was  huma,:  hearts  that  enrich' d  the  land. 

And  the  crop  grew  rank  in  the  crimson  rain  ! 
'  Twas  here —  'twas  here  that  the  flojoer  and  pride 

Of  the  Nation  fell  when  the  Reaper  came. 
And  the  sheaves,  as  they  bent  down  side  by  side. 

Were  borne  away  by  the  lurid  flame  ! 


Oh  think,  brothers,  think  what  a  prtte  was  paid 

That  the  Land  we  love  should  be  pure  and  free. 
That  the  corner-stone  our  Fathers  laid 

Should  ne'er  be  the  base  of  Slavery  ! 
Oh  say  can  it  be  that  this  blood-bought  Land 

Shall  sink  to  a  home  for  the  vile  and  base  f 
J\^^  t  —  rather  let  the  waves  o'ersweep  the  strand, 

A  nil  dash  it  from  Earth' s  polluted  face  ! 


3« 


CORPORAL    DAY, 


'Tis  WELL,  in  Heaven's  appointed  plan. 
We  sometimes  fail  to  grasp  the  prize 
For  which  we  seek  with  eager  eyes; 

For  'tis  the  search  that  makes  the  man. 

Success  through  failure  oft  is  found : 

Had  we  but  reat  h'd  the  place  we  sought. 
Or  done  the  brilliant  deeds  we  thoupht, 

Should  we  now  hold  this  vantage-grounti  ? 

The  little  slip,  the  small  delay 

That  brought  us  panting  to  the  strand. 
With  bag  and  baggage  in  our  hand, 

To  see  the  vessel  sail  away  !  — 

The  chance  we  miss'd  by  just  a  hair, 
That  made  us  mourn  our  luckless  fate. 
And  smite  the  breast,  and  cry,  "  Too  late  !  " 

How  deep  it  jjlungcd  us  in  despair  ! 

But,  by-and-by,  when  Rumor's  wing 
Wafts  back  tlie  tidings  that  no  more 
The  fated  bark  shall  greet  the  shore, 

How  grateful,  then,  the  songs  we  sing  I 

"  We  walk  by  faith  and  net  by  sight ; " 

And,  groi)ing  blindly  in  the  night, 

Abundant  cause  have  we  to  bless 

The  thorns  that  pierce  with  sore  distress,  ^ 


L 


SUMTER'S  GUH. 

That  rend  the  flesh,  but  plainly  say : 

"  Turn  back,  for  you  have  miss'd  the  way  t 

Here  Danger  lurks  in  pitfalls  deep. 

And  bogs  and  dens  and  chxsms  steep  I 

Oh  turn  and  tread  the  beaten  track,  — 

There  Safety  leads,  —  turn  back,  turn  1)ack  ! 

Well,  time  roll'd  on,  and  nothing  yet 
Turn'd  up  to  save  our  friend  from  debt ; 
Although  the  secret  of  wealth  to  find 
Deeply  exercise<l  Absalom's  mind. 
He  sought  with  diligence  far  and  wide. 
And  left  no  feasible  stone  unturn'd 
By  which  a  living  may  be  earn'd. 
He  heard  of  many  an  easy  way,  — 
A  royal  road  to  wealth,  I  may  say  ; 
But  none  of  them  suited  Absalom  Day. 
No  felon-maxim  ruled  the  man  : 
"  Get  money  ;  honest,  if  you  can  ; 
But  if  you  can't,  —  get  money  sure  ; 
Be  what  you  will,  but  don't  be  i)Oor  !  " 
Not  such  his  "  policy ;  "  better  be  dead 
Than  sell  his  soul  for  the  devil's  bread  1 
So  things  look'd  dark  on  every  siile  ; 
For  though  the  world,  indeed,  was  wide. 


37 


38 


CORPORAL    DAY. 


His  share  contraded,  in  his  view. 
To  just  a  strip  six  feet  by  two  ! 

But  that  was  the  summer  of  'Sixty-One, 
When  t;  e  World  was  startled  with  Sumter's  Gun  I 
When  there  was  Work  foi  the  Loyal  and  True, 
And  thousands  found  enough  to  do  1 

Oh,  who  hxs  not  seen  a  beautiful  child,  — 
Frolicking,  laughing,  thoughtless  and  wild; 
Light  as  the  swallow  that  skims  the  stream. 
Innocent-sweet  as  a  maiden's  dream  ; 
Laving  his  limbs  in  the  pearly  dew. 
Gathering  flowers  of  every  hue, 

Wh»re  butterflies  flit  and  iioney-bees  hum  ;  — 
Who  has  not  seen  him  pause  to  hear 
The  voice  that  flute-like  floats  to  his  ear, 
As  dancing  homeward  he  answers  clear : 
"  My  mother  is  calling :  I  come,  I  come  !  " 
So,  many  a  youth  as  full  of  joy. 
As  careless-free  as  that  innocent  boy. 
Catching  the  tones  of  the  trumiK't-call, 
In  lowly  cottage  and  lordly  hail. 
Paused  and  listen'd  that  terrible  day,  — 
Solemnly  paused  in  work  and  play, 
As  glitter'd  the  sword  and  roU'd  the  dnjm ; 


SJfUSTS. 


i 


39 


Then,  bright  and  beauiiful,  brave  and  strong. 
They  swept  and  swung  in  legions  along, 
And  timed  their  march  to  the  grand  okl  song, 
"  Our  Country  calls :  we  cor.>e,  we  come  !  " 

IVe  tome  to  free  our  Brother,  who  has  cried  so  long 

in  vain  ; 
IVe  come  to  lift  the  fallen,  and  to  break  the  tyrant's 

chain  ; 
We  come  to  wash  our  Banner  of  its  hell-polluted 

^l<i'n.  As  we  go  marching  on  ! 

Our  Fathers  sealed  the    Union  and  are  sleeping 

side  l<y  side  ; 
What  God  hjth  join'd  together  let  no  traitor  hand 

divide  : 
But  one  in  Name  ami  Nation  will  we  evermore 

abide  /  As  we  go  marching  on  / 

Now,  Aljsalom  Day  was  one  of  the  first 
To  heed  the  call,  though  he  had  no  thirst 
For  a  hero's  fame  or  a  soldier's  life. 
Nor  was  he  a  lover  of  danger  and  strife ; 
But  stil!  was  he  loyal,  brave,  and  true,  — 
So  he  join'd  the  ranks  of  the  "  Boys  in  Blue." 


40 


CORPORAL    DAY. 


The  ranks  ar  ''I'd  —  the  hour  is  come : 
Now  screams  the  fife  and  rolls  the  drum  1 
Through  crowc'  ;d  streets  the  legions  tread. 
The  Spangled  Flag  above  their  head. 

"  Farewell,  dear  mother,  child,  and  wife! 
Farewell,  sweet  home  !      Though  sweet  is  life. 
To  make  men  free  is  sweeter  far. 
March  on  !     Behold  the  guiding  star  ! 
Mr  rch  on  —  march  on  for  Go<l  and  Right  I 
The  northern  hills  sink  out  of  sight. 
March  on,  till  old  Virginia  sees 
The  North  Star  flashing  through  her  trees  1 " 

or  all  the  boys  in  the  camp,  they  say 
There  was  mo  better  than  C()kih)ral  Day  : 
Generous,  noble,  kind,  and  true; 
Brave  to  ilare  and  ready  to  tlo ; 
Above  all  mean  and  selfish  ways,  — 
On  every  lip  was  the  Corporal's  praise. 

'Twas  ju?t  in  the  gray 

Of  a  crisj)  autumn-day, 

When  "  I'orward  !  "  was  heard; 

And  the  word 
Put  all  the  long  column  in  motion. 
No  time  for  adieux  or  devotion  ; 


FIGHTS  AND  FALLS. 


41 


Each  thought  of  the  one  that  he  loved, 
As  o'er  the  green  mc.:dows  they  moved. 
They  waded  the  stream,  and  were  rising  the  hill. 
When  over  their  flags  came  the  shrill 
Ping-ping   .nd  zip-zip  of  bullets,  and  then, 
On  the  crest  of  the  hill,  the  gray  figures  of  men 

'Mid  pufl"s  of  blue  smo'.ie. 

Then  suddenly  broke 
A  thunder-cloud  over  each  head. 
With  a  tenijiest  of  fire  and  lead. 
And  so  for  six  hours  it  raged,  till  the  dead 
Lay  in  heai>s  on  the  field,  and  the  river  ran  red. 

*  *         * 
Wounded  and  fainting  and  carried  away. 
Full  soon  in  the  a<5lian,  fell  Corporal  Day! 

*  *        * 

Death  gives  a  brave  discharge.     No  more 
Shall  roll  of  drum  or  cannon's  roar 
Disturb  the  soldier  now.     Advance,  retreat. 
Are  empty  sounds  ;  success,  defeat, 
To  him  are  one.     Now  gently  fold 
His  waxen  hands,  so  white  and  cold, 
With  decent  care  across  his  breast. 
And  lay  him  down  to  dreamless  rest. 


4» 


CORPORAL    DAY. 


With  quivering  heart  and  trembling  hand, 
Poor  Caroline  Gray,  as  pale  as  a  ghost, 
Opcn'd  the  paper  that  came  by  post, 
And  glanced  o'er  the  ti<lings  that  darken'd  the 

land  ; 
When,  breathless,  bewilder'd  and  reeling,  she  read 
Her  Absalom's  name  with  the  "  Wounded  and 
Dead!" 

'T  is  enough  !  't  is  enough  !  —  No  need  to  be  told 
Of  the  dark  clouds  of  anguish  that  over  her  roll'd. 
Of  her  long  weeks  of  loneliness,  sorrow,  and  pain, 
Of  the  fiery  fever  that  burn'd  in  her  brain, 
Of  her  slow-coming  strength,  of  her  heart-hiddc 

grief, 
Of  the  angels  of  mercy  that  bro-ght  her  relief. 

[Ix  Camp. — A  Letter  from  Home.'\ 

Some  were  sitting,  some  were  standing,  others 
fishing  in  the  lake  ; 

Some  were  sound  asleep  and  dreaming,  others 
dreaming  wide  awake ; 

Some  were  patching  up  their  tatters,  others  polish- 
ing their  guns ; 


\ 


I 


LETTER  FROM  HOME. 


43 


Some  were  fcuoing  ragged  letters,  others  p<  pping 

sorry  puns. 
Each  was  using  his  endeavor  thus  to  pxssthe  time 

away; 
All  were  waiting,  all  were  ready,  all  were  eager 

for  the  fray. 

When  soon  there  came  a  murmur,  like  the  rising 

of  a  gale,  — 
"  Corporal  Jones  has  got  a  letter  from  his  sister 

by  the  m  il  !  " 
"A  letter,  boys,  a  letter  !  "  —  And  each  man  was 

on  his  feet ; 
"Corjxjral  Jones  has  got  a  letter  I"  —  How  we 

scamper'd  up  the  street ! 
A  letter  from  New  England !  —  't  was  an   angel 

from  the  skies. 
Some  came  with  eager  questions,  not  a  few  with 

tearful  eyes. 
"  Now  plexse  to  read  it,  Corporal :  let  us  hear  it 

—  every  word." 
Yet  nothing  save  the  crackle  of  the  pai>er  could 

\y.  heard  ; 
But  that  alone  was  music,  and  no  sweeter  seem'd 

to  be, — 


A,'.- 


i 


44 


CORPORAL    DAY. 


For  it  brought  the  leafy  rustle  of  our  dear  old 

trysting-tree  ! 
With   frciiiicnt  intcrniption  does  he  read  it  line 

by  line, — 
How   the   corn-crop    is    progressir.g,    and     how 

flourishes  the  vine ; 
Of  all  that  father  's  doing ;  of  something  mother 

sai<l ; 
How  Sally  Smith  is  wed  at  last,  and  Annie  Lee 

is  dead. 
Too  soon  the  sheet  is  ended  ;  —  how  very  brief  it 

seems ! 
But  it  keeps  us  long  a-talking,  and  it  lengthens 

out  our  dreams ; 
For  our  feet  in  fancy  wander  o'er  the  hills  we 

know  so  well, 
And  we  linger   'neatli   the   roof-tree    where   our 

heart's  aflections  dwell  I 

*     «     * 

Blackberry  Centre,  one  morning,  was  thrown 
Into  wondrous  surprise    when    the    tidings    wjre 

known 
That  Caroline  (iray  had  vanish'd  away, 
And  as  to  her  whereabouts  no  one  could  say  ! 


CARRIE  CRAY. 


45 


The  children  came  to  the  school  to  find 
Lock'd  was  the  door  and  closed  the  blind. 
Some  waited  in  wonder  and  some  in  grief, 
And  some  of  them  utter'd  a  sigh  of  relief; 
Till,  one  by  one,  they  wander'd  away, 
Wondering  where  was  Caroline  Gray. 

And  soon  the  village  Iwigan  to  stir, 
And  search  on  every  side  for  her,  — 
Led  on  by  Do«ld  and  Father  Hobb 
And  queer  old  Uncle  Nathan  Cobb, 
Captain  Keene,  of  martial  mien, 
And  the  village  infidel,  Orville  Green. 
They  search'd  the  school  and  ransack'd  her  room. 
And  even  tapp'd  on  the  family  tomb ; 
They  dragg'd  the  river,  they  scour'd  the  plain, 
They  beat  the  forest ;  but  all  in  vain  ! 
They  pcek'd  and  poked  in  every  place ; 
But  fail'd  to  find  one  track  or  trace 
Of  Caroline's  hand,  or  foot,  or  face. 

At  list  they  all  began  to  say 
That  Carrie  must  have  been  carried  away 
By  a  i)atent-medicine  vender,  who 
Had  disapiHjar'd  that  morning  too  ! 
He  wxs  a  singular  sort  of  chap. 
With  a  velvet  coat  and  a  seal-skin  rap, 


46 


CORPORAL    DAY. 


A  coal-black  beard  and  a  sallow  skin. 
And  a  piercing  eye  that  look'd  like  sin  ; 
His  head  was  covcr'd  with  slimiwy  curls, 
And  he  always  "went"  for  the  prettiest  girls. 
In  BlackK'rry  Centre  he  sold  a  lot 
Of  his  miserable  trash  j  indeed  there  was  not 
A  house  in  the  village  in  which,  I  am  sure, 
You  could  n't  have  found  a  bottle  or  more, 
And  warranted  all  diseases  to  cure. 

The  case  was  plain  to  all  the  ])e()ple 
As  the  gilded  vane  of  the  Orthodox  steeple,  — 
At  least,  't  was  plain  to  Do*ld  and  Hobb 
And  queer  old  Uncle  Nathan  Cobb, 
Who  being  the  wealthiest  men  in  the  place, 
Of  course,  to  the  rest  't  was  a  settled  case. 
And  so  they  met  in  the  village-store, 
And  talk'd  tiie  matter  o'er  and  o'er. 
One  said  he  always  thought  that  Carrie 
Seem'd  in  a  wonderful  hurry  to  marry, 
"And  only  for  Prudence  Flint,  they  say, 
She  'd  gone  an'  married  that  Absalom  Day." 
Says  Natiian  CobI>,  with  a  knowing  wink: 
"  The  galls  l)e  all  n  a  hurry,  I  think  !  " 
"  .Xmcn  to  that,"  groan'd  Deacon  Do«l«l ; 
"  But  then,  to  my  mind,  't  is  mighty  odd 


DISAPPEARED. 


47 


Why  sech  a  sensible  gal   should  go 
For  to  run  away  with  a  pedler  so." 
"  Ah  yes  ! "  says  Hobb ;  "  but  thar's  none  can  tell 
What  a  woman  is  till  you  knows  her  well." 
"  That 's  so,"  moan'd  Dodd  ;  "  without  a  doubt. 
They  're  all  very  nice,  till  they're  found  out !  " 
(Here  every  loafer  seem'd  to  split 
His  sides  at  the  Deacon's  pungent  wif 
For  nothing,  with  some,  is  relish'd  so  much 
As  a  dig  at  Woman  — when  out  of  her  clutch  ! 
Besides,  there  was  n't  a  lounger  there 
But  knew  what  the  Deacon  had  to  bear ; 
With  a  termagant  wife  and  a  si-itfire  -laughter. 
Poor  soul !  he  was  always  in  boiling  water.") 
Says  Nathan  Cobb,  "  I'm  inclined  to  say, 
She 's  gone  a-huntin'  fur  Abs'lum  Day ; 
She  had  this  hankerin'  arter  the  lad. 
An'  you  know  what  a  mis'able  time  she  's  had 
Since  he  wxs  wounded  thar  to  Ball's  Bluff." 
Says  Father  Hobb,  "  Why,  sure  enough  ! 
Thar 's  no  knowin'  what  a  gal   may  do. 
When  she  falls  in  love  with  a  boy  in  blue  : 
P'rhaps  she  's  'listed  herself — who  knows?  — 
An'  is  nussin'  'im  now  —  in  sojer's  clo'es!  " 
"  Pshaw  !  no  indeed,"  growls  Deacon  I)o«l<l ; 


mmm 


48 


CORPORAL    DAY. 


"For  Absalom  Day  is  under  the  socl, — 
Bein'  shot  and  kill'd  three  mc  ths  ago: 
She's  run  away  with  the  quack,  I kucnv .'" 

What  the  Deacon  affirmM  none  dare  dispute; 
For,  out  of  his  house,  he  was  alisohite, 
And  thus  the  tribute  lie  had  to  pay 
At  home,  he  exacfled  wlien  away. 

And  so  they  talk'd  and  the  scandal  spread  ; 
But  I  dare  not  tell  one-cpiarter  they  said. 
While  gallantry  bids  me  sujjpress  the  things 
The  women  whispcr'd  in  social  rings,  — 
At  prayers,  at  work,  at  the  quilting  bee, 
Or  over  their  magical  dish-o'-tea. 

They  said,  " with  a  quack. 

Just  as  soon  as  he  turn'd  his  back  !".... 
And  they  said  'twas  awful  to  think  what  guile 
A  face  may  hide  in  a  saintly  smile,  — 
What  plots  and  plans  and  deep  designs. 
What  crfxiked  ways  and  hidden  mines  ! 
That  modest  cheeks  and  downcast  ej  es 
Are  all  very  well  —  julun  they  tf/l  no  lies. 
IJut,  as  for  their  parts,  tliey 'd  r.itlier  run 
The  risk  of  a  romp  than  trust  in  a  nun  !  .  .  .  . 

Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  !  but  <lid  n't  they  flay 
The  \toox  little  s<hool -ma'am,  Caroline  dray  I 


FREEDO.VS  MARTYRS. 


4y 


V. 


"Beho/il  the  rii<er  that  shwly  moves 

Along  the  valley  ileep  ami  wide  ! 
The  ghastly  light  of  the  cloiitled  moon 

But  half  ra'eals  the  mighty  tide. 
Jriiat  seems  the  wail  of  a  funeral  march 

From  out  of  the  current  faintly  comes. 
With  a  measured  beat,  like  countless  feet. 

Timed  to  the  roll  of  .   uffled  drums. 


"Look,  mortal,  lookT*  said  the  Tongue  unseen ; 
"  Fear  no.,  but  look,  and  thou  shall  knoto .'" 

I  gazed  in  awe,  for  the  serried  ranks 
Of  men  in  myriads  march' d  belon: 

Oh,  such  a  rii'er  /    And  who  ?  or  ii.<hat  t 
"  A  phantom  host,"  the  Voice  replied  : 
The  shadotuy  files  of  martyr  d  men 
Who,  fir  your  freedom,  fought  and  died  I ' ' 


50 


CORPORAL    DAY. 


K'HK^,  away,  the  sceptic  cold, 
Who  tells  me  hearts  are  bought  and  sold ; 
And  that  nor  faith,  nor  love,  nor  tnith, 
Time-honor'd  age,  unsullied  youth. 
Nor  manly  worth,  nor  female  grace 
Survives  the  ruin  of  the  Race  ! 
That  naught  exists  beyond  the  tomb 
But  dark,  profound,  eternal  gloom  ; 
And  neither  life,  nor  hope,  nor  heaven 
To  Man,  the  Fatherless,  is  given  ! 
Away,  vile  sland'rer  of  your  kind  ! 
Begone  I — among  the  demons  find 
A  region  suited  to  your  mind  ; 
For  't  is  your  lusts  that  make  you  blind  I 
Oh  what  has  mark'd  this  wondrous  Age,  — 
Of  all  the  ages  past  the  flower,  — 
Have  we  not  seen  the  fiendish  jjower 
Of  despots  quail  before  the  rage 
Of  Freedom's  sons  ?    And  not  alone 
In  this  broad  T_ind,  we  call  our  own  ;  — 
But  o'er  the  world,  —  the  glorious  sight 
Of  millions  marching  for  the  Right. 
'Tis  but  the  Soul,  that  never  dies. 
Her  pinions  pluming  for  the  skies. 


THE  BATTLEFIELD. 

"  The  age  of  Chivalry  is  o'er !  " 
Cries  Burke  in  shame,  because  to  save 
A  queenly  martyr  from  the  grave. 

Ten  thousand  swords  leap'd  out  no  more. 

Yet,  swords  there  are  as  swift  to  leap 
In  Truth's  defence  and  for  the  Right, 
As  e'er  were  drawn  by  plumed  knight, 

O'er  whom  romantic  maidens  weep. 

And  there  were  heroes  then,  and  now, 
Of  whom  the  world  may  never  know, 
VVhc  bear  their  martyrdom  of  woe 

With  dauntless  heart  and  placid  brow ; 

And  blind  is  he  who  turns  the  page 

Of  hist'ry  back  to  find  an  age 

That  purer,  nobler  spirits  give, 

Than  this  great  Now  in  which  we  live. 

"The  hospital-shed,"  fair  maid,  you  say? 
Follow  my  lead,  I'll  show  the  way. 
Carefully  pass,  and  hold  your  breath,  — 
The  air  is  rotten,  and  reeks  with  death  ! .  .  . 

Aye,  this  is  War  ! The  field,  you  see. 

Is  badly  cover'd ;  but  follow  me.  — 
Horse  and  rider,  wagon  and  wheel. 
Cannon  and  caisson,  leather  and  steel, 


5« 


\ 


I 

I 


5' 


CORPORAL  PAY. 


And  a  thousand  nameless  shatter'd  things, 
That  frenzied  Battle  in  fury  (lings, 
Lie  scatter'd  in  wild  confusion  round, — 
A  nation's  wreck  l)estrcws  the  ground  ! 
The  rising  moon,  like  a  blood-red  shield, 
Tiirows  ghastly  shailows  along  the  field. 
Our  footsteps  cling  to  the  pitchy  mud ; 
The  kneade<l  clay  is  soak'd  in  blood  ; 
And  fleshless  fingers  seem  to  grasp, 
And  rigid  hands  in  agony  clasp. 
And  Hate,  on  many  a  marble  face. 
Forever  is  stamp'd  in  Dcatli's  embrace  I 
Faint  moans  are  heard,  and  gurgling  cries, 
A'kI  dead  men  stare  with  stony  eyes, 
And  i)ale,  sulphureous  vapors  rise, 
And  roll  and  writhe  and  U-.k!  and  crawl, 
Like  serpents,  round  and  through  it  all ! 
But  fear  you  not ;  of  this  mighty  throng, 
No  shadow  may  rise  to  <lo  you  wrong. 
The  guard  is  relieved  ;  no  sentinel  keen. 
With  "  halt !  "  and  gleam  of  bayonet,  seen  ; 
For  the  temiwst  of  battle  is  hush'd  to  a  breath. 
And  Vi^ory  slec|)s  on  the  Inisom  of  Death  I 
Aye,  this  is  War,  —  tiie  "glorious"  way, 
From  cursed  Cain's  primaeval  day, — 


THE  rSAV  DRUMMER- BOY. 


53 


In  every  clime  and  every  age, 
In  spite  of  prophet,  priest,  and  sage  ; 
Of  Him  whose  hallow'd  name  is  dear 
To  Christian  hearts  ;  of  orphan's  tear. 
Of  widow's  wail,  of  bosoms  wrung. 
And  pleadings  of  an  unseen  Tongue  ; 
In  spite  of  all  the  vaunted  light 
Of  "  modern  culture  ;  "  and  in  spite 
Of  justice,  reason,  truth,  and  right,  — 
The  onfy  way  that  Men  and  Hrutes 
Can  end  their  snarlings  and  disi)utes  ! .  .  .  . 
Ah!  see  this  child, — so  young,  so  fair!- 
With  dimpled  cheek  and  golden  hair ; 
His  blue  eyes  fix'd,  his  white  lips  dumb, 
One  baby  arm  around  his  drum, 
And  one,  with  life-blood  stain'd,  is  press'd 
Uix)n  the  wound  that  rends  his  breast. 
Are  there  no  far-off  eyes  that  swim 
In  anxious  tears,  awaiting  him? 
Is  there  no  heart  that  lonely  yearns 
Till  her  brave  soldier-babe  returns? 
Too  sweet,  too  tender  blossom,  thou, 
Fair  Boy,  to  deck  the  Vigor's  brow ; 
But  not,  alas  !  too  tender-sweet 
For  War  to  trample  'neath  her  feet  ! 


54 


COKPORAL  DAY. 


Fearful,  indeed,  was  the  work  to-day ! 
But  follow  my  steps,  —  I'll  pick  the  way,  — 
We  're  almost  there.  .  .  .  One's  senses  swim, 
And  things  look  weird,  unearthly,  dim.  .  .  . 
Beware  the  trench !     Too  nigh  the  rim, 
You  're  apt  to  slip  !  ...  It  must  be  Love 
That  draws  you  here,  like  a  messenger  dove : 
Here,  in  the  midst  of  the  mould'ring  dead  ; 
Here,  to  the  hideous  hospital-shed  ; 
Here,  where  Woman  should  never  be ; 
Here,  with  horrors  she  dares  not  see  ! 
Yet,  like  an  angel,  calm  and  sweet, 
She  comes !  she  comes  with  winged  feet : 
O  God  !  she  comes  to  a  hell  like  this,  — 
Straying  away  froir-  heavenly  bliss : 
A  beam  of  light  in  a  dungeon  dank  ; 
A  blooming  rose  among  brambles  rank ; 
A  single  star,  through  itorm-clouds  riven  ; 

A  link  that  binds  us  still  to  Heaven 

See  !  here  's  the  place  —  the  hospital-shed  : 
Here  are  the  living,  and  there  ...  the  Dead. 
No  wonder  you  start,  and  tremble  so : 

'Tis  a  frightful  hole D'  you  think  y'll  know 

His  face  again  ?  ....  In  this  stifling  room, 
Scores  are  waiting  their  welcome  doom,  — 


IH  THS  HOSPtTAU 

Wishing  for  death, 
At  every  breath, 

And  envying  those  that  are  in  their  tomb. 

Hah  ?  .  .  .  Who  is  this  in  the  filthy  hay,  — 
Pale  and  famish'd,  and  seeming  to  pray  ? 
Can  it  be  jKissiblt  I . .  .  Cori^ral  Day  1 
Poor  boy  !  poor  boy ! .  .  .  One  breath  of  air. 
One  cup  of  water,  cool  and  clear, 
From  his  mountain-home,  could  we  but  bear 
To  his  livid  lips  —  his  burning  brow  ! 
One  word,  one  adt  of  kindness  now  ;  — 
One  gentlest  touch  of  a  human  hand. 
That  he  may  feel  in  Christian  land,  — 
One  deed  of  love,  however  small, 
Ere  yet  the  spirit  burst  its  thrall, 
To  join  the  ranks  at  the  geneial  call 

Of  the  last  great  muster-day  ! 
O  God  !  shall  he  sink  to  a  nameless  grave, 
In  the  I^and  whose  honor  he  dies  to  save  ? .  .  . . 
To-morrow,  to-morrow  his  murd'rers  come. 
And  finding  his  blue  lips  cold  and  dumb. 
Will  shovel  him  out  of  the  way  1 


s& 


The  morning  dawns,  and  Absalom's  eyes 
Languidly  open  in  dreamy  surprise : 


$6 


CORPORAL   DAY, 


"What !  still  alive? 'Tis  coming  now. 

I  feel  the  cold  sweat  bead  my  brow. . . . 

I  see  a  vision  bright  and  sweet : 

I  seem  to  see  the  village-sfeet, — 

M/  own  loved  home,  —  I  know  it  well  I 

I  hear  —  I  hear  the  Sabbat'  -l>ell ! 

I  seem  to  see  the  dear  old  hills ; 

I  seem  to  hear  the  murmuring  rills. 

The  church,  the  store,  the  mill !     How  plain 

Refore  my  mind  they  come  again  ! , .  .  , 

Is  this  a  dream  ? ...  or  am  I  dead  ? 

.\n  angel  bends  above  my  head. 

Slie  smiles,  how  sweet !     She  fans  my  brow 

With  fmgrant  wing. .  .  .  What ! .  .  .  can  it  Iw? 

Or  do  I  dream,  and  seem  to  see  ?  ...  . 

It  must !  .  .  .  Great  Heavens  ;.  v^ve  !  't  is  she  ! 

My  love!  " 

Ah  !  is  he  dreaming  now  ? 
No,  no !     The  vision  fades  away,  — 
His  arms  are  round  his  Carrie  dray  I 

One  I 
Rini;  the  hells,  one  / 
One  in  loi'e,  one  ! 
One,  nvr  one! 


otrx. 

Ring  the  bells,  one/ 
One  eountry,  one  I 
No  more  divide  u 
ViHory  won  ; 
Question  decided; 

Slavery  g,me/ 
Ring  the  be.'ls,  one/ 
One  again,  ore  / 
North  and  South,  East  and  IVesf: 

One  banne<',  one  I 
Flows  through  .rach  throbbing  breast 
One  eurrent,  one .' 
Ring  the  hells,  one! 
Marching /i<r  home; 
Batt'  -.    uf'e: 
Flin;  loor; 

Come,  t:  ,  tome! 

Love  them:  caress  them; 
Honor  and  bless  them  ! 
Ring  th.;  bells,  one! 
Ring  again,  one! 
Blessed  God,  one! 
One,  rver  one  / 
One! 


57 


1_ 


S8 


CORPORAL  DAY. 


"O  Woman  f  in  our  hours  of  esse, 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  "  —  if  you  please, 
You  Ml  find  the  rest  in  Walter  Scott, 
Or  in  your  hearts,  if  you  have  go 
Hearts  that  have  ever  fe'.t  in  life 
A  mother's  love,  a  sister's  care. 
Or  what  is  still  more  angel-rare. 
The  fond  devotion  of  a  wife  ! 
Wife,  the  weaver,  —  noble  name  I  — 
That  from  sturdy  Saxon  came. 
When  the  man,  with  shield  and  bow. 
Went  to  meet  th'  invading  foe  ; 
Or  in  forest  slew  the  boar; 
Or   he  g.nmt  wolf  at  the  door. 
Wh  le  the  weaver,  gentle  wife, 
Sat  securely,  free  from  strife. 
By  h^r  rosy  brood  surrounded. 
Where  rude  health  and  mirth  abounded,- 
Chanting  some  love-lisping  rhyme. 
With  her  shuttle  keeping  time ; 
As  beneath  her  fingers  roll'd 
Homely  frieze  or  cloth  of  gold. 
Wife,  the  weaver :  oh  't  is  she 
Weaves  the  web  of  destiny,  — 
Weaves  the  web  of  life  that  may 


i 


HODBRN  BLACKBERRY. 

Glsam  with  threads  of  golden  ray,  . 
Or  as  black  as  funeral  pall, 
Round  our  dead  hopes  darkly  fall ! 

Excuse  this  digression      Permit  me  to  say 
That  I  was  in  Blackberry  t'  other  day ; 
But  oh  !  what  a  change  the  years  have  made  1 
For  now  the  railroad  track  is  laid. 
And  the  village  does  n't  look  half  so  sweet. 
Nor  the  people  nearly  so  happy  and  nf.at ; 
For  city  shoddy  has  found  them  out, 
And  turn'd  their  heads  to  the  right-about. 
The  girls  go  follo\"ing  fashion's  tracks. 
With  bunches  of  ribbon  pinn'd  to  their  b..  ks ; 
And  the  boys  contrive  to  cut  a  dash, 
With  cane  a^a  ulster  and  swelly  moustache. 
In  facft,  SOI      humbug  discover'd  a  spring, — 

"  Kind  .<ature's  Own  Hygienic  River 
Of  Health,"  he  i  amed  it,  "and  just  the  thing 

To  corr?(51  the  Grert  American  Liver  !  I  "  — 
And  so  he  built  ?round  his  well 
A  rambling,  ric'  ety,  wooden  shell, 
And  call'd  it.  "The  National  Hotel." 
For  once  the  village  was  all  alive. 
And  everythi-.g  seem'd  to  blossom  and  thrive ; 


St 


6o 


COKPORAL  DAY. 


And  the  folks  declared,  "  Sich  a  noble  ventur' 
Would  be  the  makin'  of  Blackberry  Centre,— 
Real  estate  would  rise  like  a  rocket, 
And  every  lunk  might  fill  his  pocket !  " 
But  Deacon  Dodd  took  t'  other  side, 
And  said,  "  -T  would  only  puff  up  thar  pride. 
And  fill  thar  heads  with  nonsense  and  trash, 
In  place  of  fillin'  thar  pocl.ets  with  cash  !  " 

But  alas  for  the  monster  of  lath-and-plaster  ! 
It  proved  to  the  Centre  a  grand  disaster,  — 
A  roost  for  rogues  from  Maine  to  Texas, 
And  miserable  sinners  of  both  the  sexes; 
Till  Blackberry  Centre  stood  aghast 
To  see  "  The  River  of  Health  "  so  fast. 
And  wonder'd  how  long  this  thing  would  last  1 
But  it  didn't  pay;  so,  of  course,  one  night, 
The  plac?  burnt  down  :   "and  sarvrd  'em  right," 
Said  Deacon  Dod.i.  ...  But  the  sin  and  shame  ' 
Remain  to  be  cleans'd  by  a  fiercer  flame  ! 

Well,  I  thought  I M  just  step  -nto  the  store 
Where  all  was  sold,  and  a  little  more, 

When  there  it  was  the  same  as  before  1 

The  strings  of  onions,  the  pens  and  ink ; 
But  out  of  the  den.ijohn  . .  .  nothing  to  drink  I 
Nothing  stronger  than  ginger-beer ; 


I 


1 


MARRIED  AND  SETTLED.  \ 

For  actually  "  the  Law"  '»  enforced  up  here, 

And  nothing's  imbibed  by  any  .  .  .  except 

By  those  who  know  where  the  moisture  is  kept. 

And  wl\o  should  I  see  but  Dodd  and  Hobb 

And  queer  old  Uncle  Nathan  Cobb ! 

But  not  the  man  of  martial  mien. 

Nor  the  village  infidel,  Orville  Green  : 

For  over  the  gallant  Captain's  grave 

The  daisies  droop  and  willows  wave ; 

And  as  for  the  infidel,  strange  to  say  I 

He  disapptar'd  one  stormy  day. 

And  never  again  was  heard  or  seen 

A  sight  or  sound  of  "  Awful  "  Green,  — 

The  only  man  who  spoke  right  out, 

What  others  held  in  cilent  doubt. 

But  there  were  the  rest,  the  san;-  aa  before, 

The  bats  that  cluster  a  country-store. 

On  barrel  and  box  and  round  tbe  door ; 

And  behind  the  counter,  brisk  and  gay, 

Plump  and  jolly, who  d'  you  say  ? 

Yes ;  you  've  guess'd  it,  —  Corporal  Day  1 
"This  is  Corporal  Day,"  said  I; 

"  Or  else  his  spirit  I  see  here? " 
"  Himself,"  quoth  he,  with  a  twinkling  eye, 

"L.  flesh -and -blood,  so  don't  you  fear  1 " 


6a 


CORPORAL  DAY. 


"  ^  '='"''  *«^'"'  yo"  poor  old  . . .  hoss  ?  » 
"  Why,  yes,"  said  Ab ;  "  both  clerk  and  bc^ 

I  own  the  store  j 

And,  what  is  more, 
I  own  that  house  across  the  way." 

"You  do  n't '"said  I, 

With  an  envious  sigh  • 

"For  that's  the  house  of  Caroline  Gray  J" 
"It  was,"  said  he-  ««Ki,»i»~u 
TK,.  T  ' "*'      ^"' J  m  happy  to  tell 

That  I  own  Carrie  herself  as  well !  " 

Cries  Nathan  Cobb,  "That  ain'^  «  •. 

".1  nat  ain  t  quite  trew : 

Fur  some  folks  sez  that  she  owns  yew." 
Here  Absalom  blush'd,  and  Dodd  and  Hobb 

And  queer  old  Uncle  Nathan  Cobb 

And  every  loafer  round  the  store 

Went  into  f.ts,  with  a  thund'ring  roar 

"Why,  did  n't  you  know,"  quoth  Deacon  Dodd. 

T.ppmg  the  others  a  wink  and  a  nod. 

"Did  n't  you  know  that  Carrie  an'  he 

Has  sot  up  shop -now,  let  me  see,- 

I  most  furgit,  so  fast  time  flies ; 

But  look  ! .  .     ,\'  ,.f.  cr„   ,,,       '  , 

■  n  .e  see  tncm  three  pooty  little 
youngsters  over  yandcr  makin'  mud  pie, ?  " 
I  do.    said  I.     "Wall;  them  is  thars." 


Episodes  of  City  Life. 


EPISODES      OF     CITY   LIFE. 


MATTER-O' -MONEY. 


•T  WAS  once  a  true  saying  that  matches  are  made 
In  the  regions  above ;  but  indeed  I'm  afraid, 
By  the  brimstone  that  covers  them  now,  to  our 

woe. 
They  are  pretty  much  made  in  the  regions  below  I 
It  is  matter-o'-money,  I  fear,  and  the  rest, 
As  a  general  rule,  is  delusion  at  best ; 
The  wiles  and  the  smiles,  the  love-lisping  rhymes, 
The  vows  of  devotion,  the  rapturous  times, 
The   fair  orange-blossoms,    the  sweet   wedding- 
chimes,  — 
May  all  be  resolved  into  dollars  and  dimes  ! 
But  here  let  me  tell  you  some  stories,  by  way 
Of  pointing  the  moral  I  wish  to  convey. 
6S 


66 


S//SODES  OF  ClTl-  Ifjrg. 


An  agent  there  wa.  of  some  nondescript  kind, 
For  whom  or  what  business.  I  never  could  find  • 
H.S  name  was  John  Smith;    but  he  wasn't    to 
blame 

For  bearing  through  life  such  a  singular  name. 
Twas  none  of  the  Smiths  that  you  know  so  well  • 
Oh  no!_no  relation,  I'm  happy  to  tell. 
Your  Smiths  are  all  gentlemen -men  of  pure  gold; 
But  mme .  .  .  well,  you  '11  know  when  the  story  i. 
told.  ' 

An  office  he  had.  with  a  desk  and  a  chair 
A  cash-book  and  journal,  a  mighty  spittoon, 
A  map  on  the  wall  like  a  view  of  the  moon. 
Yea  such  was  his  den  ;  but  he  seldom  was  there. 
In  fad,  he  was  usually  taking  the  air 
On  Washington  Street,  when  his  labors  were  o'er 
Or  picking  his  teeth  at  the  Parker-House  door    ' 
Though  I  rather  suspedl  that  he  seldom  was  able 
To  more  than  behold  in  the  distance  the  table  I 

But  as  to  his  funds  I  am  quite  in  the  dark, 
His  bank-book  I  never  could  see  ; 

I  can  scarcely  supj^o^  that  he  borro'w'd.  -altho' 
I'm  aware  that  he  borrow'd  of  me  ! 

Bat  now  for  the  climax.      One  day  Danny  Cupid 

Hit  Smith  with  an  arrow,  which  really  was  stupid 


MATTSX  C  MOSMY. 


•I 


( 


In  Dan,  for  he  shot  at  a  very  poor  time,  — 
When  Smith  hadn't  even  the  ghost  of  a  dime. 
Now  every  one  knows,  who  has  gone  thro'  the  mill. 
That  your  Love  is  a  wonderful  drain  on  the  till ! 
They  say  Love  is  blind  —  wanting  only  to  flatter. 
Oh  no !  it  is  ravenous :  that 's  what 's  the  matter. 
Just  think  of  the  oysters  and  jellies  and  creams. 
The  champagne  and  chickens,  the  very  fast  teams, 
The  cartes-de-visite  and  the  -billets  in  reams  ! 
Just  think  of  the  presents  in  trinkets  and  rings, 
In  brooches  and  lockets  and  such  little  things ; 
Then  think  of  the  lecture,  the  concert,  the  play. 
And  a  score  or  more  items  for  which  you  must  juy; 
And  to  say  Love  is  blind,  is  out  of  the  question : 
Its  sight  only  rivals  its  monstrous  digestion  I 
How  many  young  gallants  are  forced  to  despair 
Of  marriage  with  even  five  hundred  a  year ! 
Five  hundred  !    Absurd !     They  scarcely  are  able 
To  pay  for  their  weeds,  not  to  mention  the  stable ; 
And  as  for  the  tailor,  why,  law  Mess  your  heart ! 
Do  you  think  that  to  settle  su:h  bills  would  be 

smart  f 
The  Romeo  where  that  could  tell  Juliet, 
"  I  feel  rather  fearful  of  falling  in  debt  I  " 
The  Juliet  where  that  wouhl  tell  Romeo, 


Mp/soDss  OF  crry  ufm. 


<< ' 


And  b^H.,„„,  „„,  ,„„„  ^  ^^^^^  _^ 

sl-  h."  rj"""' '"" """"' ""  »i>iu.  Of  girt ; 

AU  Of  .h,ch,"  chuckW  s™i,h,  i„  .  ,„„„„, 
*'A.lofwh.-ch,.iM  be  ..-ne  and  Maria's  soo. 

^'r'"°7'^''"-'^-'h^' his  plans  were  no  go. 
^at  a  penn,Ies,suitorn,ay  never  aspire. 
Whoever  he  be.  to  the  hand  of  Mariar- 
For  Smith  when  he  spoke  to  Papa  of  hL  suit. 
Was  threaten'd  with  warn,  application  of  bo^t 

And   he  couldn't  have  madden'd  him  more'  I 
suppose, 

Had  he  taken  the  solid  old  man  by  the  nose: - 
W^t.^you.  Sir.  presumes.,  my  daughter  to 

''°^„°;;;J';;;;S'''^h«'-PentoTom.Dick.or 
A  pauper  like  you.  Sir.  my  ch.ld  to  be  lost  on,- 


ttATTSK  <y  MONSy.  ^ 

The  heiress    of  Tadpole  I  —  tae    Tadpoles  of 
Boston?  — 

The  Beacon-Street  Tadpoles,  whose  word  is  their 

bond, 
Born  and  bred,  every  one,  on  the  banks  of  Frog 

Pond! 
Do  you  know  that  I'm  worth.  Sir,  a  million  or 

more  ? 
That  my  houses  and  tenements  count  by  the  score? 
Do  yoir  know  that  my  bonds  and  my  bank-stock 

alone 
Foot  up  half-a-million  ?  "  (Smith  utter'd  a  groan.) 
"And  are  you  aware.  Sir.  this  wealth,  when  I  die. 
Will  all  be  my  daughter's?  "    (Poor  Smith  gave  a 

sigh.) 
"  Then,  what  are  you  dreaming  of,  miserable  cur, 
To  sneak  in  my  office  and  ask  me  for  .  .  .  herf 
Clear  out,  Sir ;  and  never  again  be  so  bold 
As  to  let  me  your  plebeian  visage  behold  !  " 
'Twas  in  vain  that  Smith  said  he  expeded  a  pile, 
As  his  Uncle,  out  West,  was  then  boring  for  tie. 
'Twas  folly  to  bluster ;  't  was  idle  to  kneel ; 
'Twas  useless  to  threaten  revolver  or  steel ; 
For  his  prospeifls  were  certain'y  down  at  the  heel. 
And  plainly  he  saw,  or  he  could  n't  see  far. 


I 


%Wi 


!•  tPISODES  OF  cr-v  ufg^ 

That  money  is  more  tha  .  ..«  s.news  of  war- 
He  must  brace  up  his  mind  for  a  final  endeavor. 
As  tho   he  might  say  to  himself.  ^'Now,  or  never." 
But  work,  in  the  primitive  sense  of  the  word 
•      ^PP^"^'''°  his  reason  as  simply  absurd         ' 
To  borrow,  of  course,  he  could  scarcely  pretend; 

For  strange  to  relate,  few  a.-e  willing  to  lend 
Wuhout  some  slight  prospea  of  being  repaid. 
Alas !     s,gh  d  poor  Smith,  "must  I  lose  thee 
sweet  maid?"  .  ' 

He  consulted  his  Journal ;  't  would  nothing  reveal. 
-Nothmg  but  what  would  awaken  regret 
In  the  heart  of  a  man  unaccustomed  to  debt 
One  door  was  yet  open :  why  coulc:  he  not  steal  ? 

n  matters  but  little;....  in  faa.  I  may  say 
That  to  steal  is  considered  a  business-like  way 
And  one  of  the  popular  modes  of  the  day  -  J 
That  is,  if  you  dexfrously  nuke  a  large  haul  • 
But  a  fig  for  your  chance,  if  your  plunder  be  s4ll. 
^0  in  for  ..  million,  or  nothing  at  all ! 
■'■    er-  small  rascal  we  simply  despise ; 
But  a  great  defalcator  is  praised  to  the  skies: 

We  call  him  a  villain, 'tis  true;  but  at  heart, 

We  en-    the  fellow  for  being  so  smart  i 

All  of  which.  I  am  sorry  to  say,  goes  to  show 


MATTMK  0>  ttONBY. 


7« 


That  the  standard  of  popular  honor  is  low. 

So  Smith  cast  about  for  the  way  he  might  claim 

Some  ten  thousand  dollars.  —  no  more  ; 
And  he  did  it  by  simply  signing  the  name 

Of  a  party  who  kept  the  next  door  ! 
Alas !  gentle  reader,  how  little  we  think 
Of  the  mischief  that 's  made  with  a  penful  of  ink  I 
For  Smith,  the  poor  simpleton,  ever  must  rue  it, 
Because  he  was  timid.     Why  did  n't  he  do  it 
On  a  scale  more  sublime ...  say  fifty-times  ten  ? 
What  then?  you.demand.  I'll  tell  you  what  then: 
That  instead  of  infli(5ting  judicial  correftion. 
We'd  have  him  divide,  and  secure  his  prote<5tion 
From  justice,  or  anything  worse  thandetedion. 
We  dare  not  imprison  a  man  of  such  "parts," 
Who  could  dignify  th-ft  to  the  rank  of  fine  arts: 
A  genius  so  smart  must  be  worth  elevation ; 
No  doubt  he  could  pay  off  the  debt  of  the  naticii  1 
He  could. .  .  by  the  method  call'd  Repudiation  — 
A  metl.,  d  that  every  true  patriot  leaves 
To  be  counsel'd  by  cut-throats  and  praflised  tjy 

thieves. 
To  rob  on  the  highway  cost  Sandy  his  pate ; 
To  rob  twenty  kingdoms  made  Sandy  the  Great: 
T  vas  "  noble  ambition  "  made  this  one  a  chief, 


y« 


MP/soDss  OF  cnv  Lira.    ^ 


7r     ""^'"°"'  «'«^  "  ™«'e  the  other  a  thief  I 
f;'/"''"^'^--.s  one  purpose  we  see 
In  kmd  they  are  equals  if  not  in  degree. 
So  S.,th  to  the  prison  was  Justly  conve/d; 

ForSm,thn,adea™i«.andofcourse.n;iss-da 
maib. 

Tom  Flicker  .a,  m„,W  in  elegan,  „,le, 
O.  .h.  d,m-l,gh,ed  church,  ,he  „,g.„  „,  .h,. 

lhcshod^c.,a..h<x,dy„e,ep„»„,,_.„^,*,„ 

"7,^'"'.°"  "■-•-«—«.  h.ho,  a  shoe; 
For  ,h.  bnde  w,,  a„  heiress;  a,  least,  so  ■«»«  sa  d 
She  should  he  when  her  uncle  in  India  were  dead 
Andashel,ad,happi„,„anycom,„ai„,s,  • 

^ -^"^  sa/ero  infer  very  soon  wi,h, he  sain., 

HedbenumberU-honghscarcelyasai^in 
his  living: 

(Bur,  .her,  ,o  ,he  weal.hy  ,e  must  be  forgiving. 
S.ee.s.„„ers,..so™e.i„es,i.is„„!„4 

°'t=''k?fr""'"""""'"'"°"^'"'"""  * 


MATTER  0>  MONSY. 


73 


Tlie  wedding  wi  it  of{  emnme  il  fa'it,  let  me  sayj 
And  the  ladies  declared  't  was  as  good  as  a  pl.-iy 
But,  by-and-by,  came  in  the  men  for  their  pay. 
With  plaguy  long  bills  in  their  hands,— which, 

indeed, 
Is  a  literature  not  very  pleasing  to  read,  — 
That  is,  if  you  owe 
Much   more  than   you're  able  to  manage,  you 

know. 
Tom  lived  at  the  rate  of  ten  thousand  a  year. 
In  an  elegant  mansion  on  Commonwealth  Square. 
•Twas  just  after  breakfast,  and  Tom  and  his  wife 
Were  calmly  enjoying  the  comforts  of  life,  — 
A  fragrant  cigar  ;  —  that  is,  Flicker,  of  course; 
The  last  magay.ine  and  the  latest  divorce, 
A  fresh  bit  of  scandal  (now,  Lulu,  I  mean), 
With  a  psalm  or  a  symphony  sandwich'd  between. 
Rare  objefts  of  virtu  and  volumes  well  bound 
And  pidures  and  bric-a-brac  scattered  around. 
And  so  forth  and  so  on.    Tom  drew  from  his  poke 
A  bundle  of  bills,  and  thus  laughingly  sjioke. 
As  he  toss'd  them  to  Lulu,  "  My  love,  I  suppose. 
We  must  draw  on  the  stocking  to  liquidate  those." 
"  My  stirs  !  what  a  budget !  "  cries  Lulu ;   "but 
where 


r 


74 


XflSODSS  Of  CITY  XJFS, 


1 11»  bulk  of  your  money  i„,„,^_  ^^ 

■n"r;  I'h  T. '"' '°""'"' "" "'"  "•»•""••• 

.!.°"  ""■■■''.""«■"■'•  L".  •»-»»...■.  ,011.,; 

T,.  "'  *'"f  t""  oroidc,_„  i,  ,„„  ,„k„  „ 

inprcket?"  ' 

"In  pocket,  you  say  ?     Here ', a  five-dollar  bill 

And  here  ,  an  old  quarter  and  five  cents  in  cash' 

And  thans  the  Whole  of  ™yl.ere.or.trash' 
As  Shakespeare  denominates  money,  though  he 

Wa.  a  thrifty  old  fellow,  the  critics  agree" 

The  critics  1  -  she  scream'd;  "  the  critics  be  shot  1 
Do  you  mean  to  say.  Flic W,  that  rAar's  all  youVe 

Now  Lulu,  don't  stal  ..with  those  pretty  eyes. 

I  ex^a  to  have  more  When  ...at  old  uncle  die,..' 

That  uncle  1  what  unde?"    '•  The  India  one.- 


MATTSJt  C  MONEY. 


75 


"  He's  only  a  fiftjon  !  "  "  Then,  we  are  undone. 
And  possess  not  a  picayune  under  the  sun  !".... 
One  morning  I  pass'd  by  their  house,  ia  the  wet, 
And  I  saw  in  the  window,  "  For  Sale  or  To  Let." 
For  Flicker,  mode  fra<5lious  at  hearing  her  jaw  go, 
Went  straight  to  the  dog"  and  at  last  to  Chic-^o! 

Now  let  me  relate  you  the  story  of  Jones, 
Whose  success  for  the  others'  misfortunes  atones ; 
For  Jones,  be  it  known,  gain'd  his  obje<Sl  in  life, 
The  dream  of  his  youth,  when  he  gain'd  a  rich 

wife. 
Now,  Jones  was  a  boaster  in  very  loud  tones,  — 
The  world  was  created  expressly  for  Jones  I 
He  boasted  of  all  that  he  did  and  he  had. 
And  even  his  bad  was  a  wonderful  bad  ! 
He  talk'd  about  M  .rriage  as  mercJ^ants  of  trade, 
As  a  very  poor  "spec."  if  no  money  be  made. 
"  'Tis  the  short  ro«J  to  wealth.  Sir;  in  fad,  't  is 

to  seize 
Upon  Fortune  witnout  all  the  worry  and  tease 
Of  a  long  life  of  t  J ;  't  i$  to  sink  into  »     e, 
As  into  yo'ii        .r.  Sir,  whenever  you  please. 
E'lt  as  for  yo«.r  beauty,  affeiflion,  and  trash  I  — 
The  key  to  the  heart  is  the  key  to  the  cash  ! 


r*^^ 


y*  XPISODES  OF  CtTY  UFK. 

When  I  capture  ^ygal,  Sir.  With  plenty  of  tin, 
She  my  love  me  or  loathe  n,e. -I  care  not  a  pi; , 
Of  course  I  must  put  on  the  spooney  at  first : 
My  dearest !  my  angel !  my  bosom  will  burst  f 

Oh.  love  you?    Just  try  me.  and  then  you  shall 
see. 

Why   I M  ju:„p  .„  ^he  fire.  I  'd  plunge  in  the  sea  • 
Anything,  everything,  sweetest,  for  thee  > 
My  hook  I  should  bait  with  such  sentiment,  fine. 
And  see,  ;,retty  soon,  on  the  end  of  my  line 
A  plump  little  lamsel  teetotally  mine  '  " 

•0   ones  went  a-fi.hing;  and  managed  one  day 
^o  hook  a  young  Minnie  from  out  of  the  spray 

Of  rocky  Nahant.  and  then  scamper  away. 

■ ^^r  papa  was  enraged  I 

But,  after  a  while,  were  his  feelings  assuaged; 

So  he  gave  them  a  mansion,  and  bade  them  be 
caged, — 

Which  they  did,  you  may  trust,  with  but  little 
evasion, 

And  lived  like  two  doves  of  the  turtle  persuasion 

Ah  1  did  they?     Humi  no.  miss;  not  quit.   I 
opine ; 

For  Jones  found  a  shark  on  the  end  of  his  line  I 
And  he  found  to  his  sorrow,  and  so  did  his  wife. 


MATTEK  C  ttOffMY.- 


77 


That  money's  not  all  that  is  needed  in  life: 

Their  ta«tes,  their  desires,  their  habits  opposed. 

The  gates  of  their  hearts  to  each  other  were  closed. 

And  'twas  plain  by  their  words,  full  of  hitches 
and  twitches. 

That  Jones  nras  a  slave  and  his  wife  wore  the  keys 

That  unlock'd  the  strong  box  that  contain'd  all 
the  riches ; 

And  so  when  at  home  he  was  down  on  his  knees. 

Jones  was  a  man  when  abroad  he  would  roam ; 

But  he  shrank  to  a  child  as  he  drew  nearer  home. 

When  abroad,   he'd  expand   like    a    parachute 
rocket ; 

At  home,  he  was  popp'd  in  her  ladyship's  pocket. 

Whate'er  he  proposed  bhe  would  never  agree  to ; 

Her  will  was  his  law,  and  she  veto'd  his  veto. 
As  neither  was  saint,  why.  they  quarrel'd  of  course, 
Anc;  sued,  pretty  soon,  for  the  usual  divorce. 
Mrs.  J.  is  now  leader  in  fashion  and  dress. 
Not  as  plain  Mrs.  Jones,  but  as  Madam  Joness. 
And  Jones?  you  inquire.     He  follow'd  the  rest. 
And  his  fame,  like  the  sun,  has  gone  down  in  the 

West ! 
But  this  much  we  know :  without  labor  or  strife, 
He  really  attain'd  his  great  objea  in  life. 


7« 


MPfSODas  OJf  CfTV  L/FM. 


If  it  brought  not  that  comfort,  that  pleasure 
that  ease, 

^  That  "have  what  you  want  •  and  that  "go 
where  you  please;" 

Why.  the  fault  was  not  his.  'twas  the  fault  of  his 
wife. 

He  expeded  to  soar  to  a  marvellous  height  • 
He  did,  -as  a  tail  that  is  tagg'd  to  a  kite ; 
But  when  the  string  broke,  poor  Jones  got  a  fall. 
And  away  went  money  and  wifey  and  all ! 

Now.  the  moral  is  this:  If  you  mean  to  grow 
rich. 

Go  delve  in  a  coal-mine  or  dig  in  a  ditch; 

Go  raising  potatoes,  or  onions,  or  beet; 

Go  edit  a  paper  or  beg  on  the  street ; 

Bs  a  doaor.  a  butcher,  a  banker,  a  teacher 

A  lawyer,  a  barber,  a  poet,  a  preacher; 

Go  lobby  at  Congress,  and  crawl  on  your  knees 

For  a  government  office,  or  do  what  you  please  - 

Try  any  pursuit ;  -  but  do  n't.  for  your  life. 

you  seek  an  exemption  from  worry  and  strife 
If  you  wish  all  your  days  to  be  tranquil  and  sunny, 
Do  n  t  refuse  a  fair  lady  because  she  has  money  1 


THM  S/Jtsr  MOVSTACHK. 


79 


THE    FIRST    MOUSTACHE. 


Men  laugh  at  the  ladies  and  say  they  are  vain, 
With  a  passion   for    show  which    they  cannot 

restrain  ; — 
'Tis  my  candid  belief,  tho'  to  say  it  were  treason. 
That  men  are  more  vain  with  a  tenth  of  the  reason. 
You  remember  poor  Fledgeby,  in  Dickens's  book, 
Who  did  in  the  looking-glass  hourly  look. 
And  how  he  'd  exult  could  he  only  find  there 
A  strange-looking  pimple  that  promised  a  hair  I 
A  black,  bushy  whisker  I  ah  I  that  was  his  aim,  — 
His  objeCl  in  life,  and  the  soul  of  his  fame  1 
We  call  this  a  fi<5lion ;  but  Dickens's  wit 
Made  the  cap  of  poor  Fledgeby  for  thousands  a  fit. 
Aye.  thousands,  like  Fledgeby,  spend  labor  and 

cash 
To  nurture  a  whisker  or  train  a  moustache,  — 
Both  something  worth  having,  of  course,  if  you 

can; 
But  scarce  to  be  deem'd  the  whole  duty  of  Man  I 
Yet,  hair,  dead  or  living,  is  now  such  a  rage 


*  Mi-aauss  or  cm-  un. 

When  ™„  ,il,  ,  g«,,.„^  „„, 

;^7"'»-"™.'".ok«po„.,hefli"'   ' 

Afi«„sp,ra,„,..eha„gefoMheta.„, 
Wny,  Nature  demands  ii  1  Th—  . 

J"«  Kave  her  „.„  .av  ,  J!  ,  .T"''' '"  ■"' 
^°"""'''°'""'""«"'i*i".pen.ls,„dcj 


rW*  /7«r  MOUSTACHE. 


8i 


To  fancy  you  're  making  a  mighty  sensation,  — 
The  heir  of  the  ages  — the  hope  of  the  nation  ? 
Yo^know  what  it  is  to  be  self-satisfied. 
Well,  that 's  how  I  felt  for  a  month,  till  my  pride 
One  day  had  a  fall.     I  was  moving  down  town 
That  horrible  morning,  when  who  should  I  meet. 
Just  fresh  from  the  barber's,  all  oily  and  sweet 
As  a  roll  of  June  butter,  but  Bachelor  Brown  I 
Thought  I  to  myself,  as  I  chuckled  with  glee, 
"How  amazed  and  delighted  the  fellow  will  be  ! 
He  scarcely  will  know  me,  I'm  cerUin  of  that  I  " 
And  I  gave  my  moustache  an  encouraging  pat. 
So  we  met  face  to  face,  when  Brown  in  surprise 
Drew  back  and  survey'd  me  with  saucer-like  eyes. 
Said  he  — (he  was  one  of  those //a//»-j/«>>6^«  men ; 
But,  indeed,  I  have  ever  disliked  him  since  then) 
Said  he,  in  a  way  that  my  visions  did  scatter: 
•'  Why,  merciful  Powers  !  what  can  be  the  matter ! 
You  're  as  pale  as  a  parsnip !  as  thin  as  a  platter  ! 
You  study  too  much.  Sir.    Now,  why  do  you  do 

so? 
You  look  as  neglefted  as  Robinson  Crusoe  I 
For  pity  sake,  give  up  your  doggerel  and  books  ! 
There's  Death-on-a<ream-color'd-horse  in  your 
looks  1  ' 


8a 


MNSODES  Of  CITY  UfM. 


The  worms,  Sir,  the  worms  you  will  soon  be 
among,  — 

One  would  think  you  're  about  to  be  married  or 
hung  I 

And,  then,  you  're  not  wash'd :  there  are  traces 

of  hash 
Or  mash  on  your  lip,  Sir,  or  some  other  trash." 

Oh,  how  did  my  vanity  fall  with  a  smash  I 
I  could  hardly  reply  in  the  midst  of  the  crash, 
"Why,  Brown,  are  you  crazy?  — why,  Ma/'s  my 
moustache!  " 

■Twas  enough.      I  went  home,  and  with  little 
delay. 

The  whole  institution  —  I  scraped  it  away; 
And,  indeed,  on  the  blade,  as  I  held  it  to  view. 
It  look'd  like  the  mould  that  adorns  an  old  shoe. 


••• 


AMMTUV5A, 


t.t 


I 


ARETHUSA. 

Ok  the  street  where  I  live  —  a  very  fair  street, 

A  very  fair  lady  I  often  did  meet : 
As  often,  at  least,  as  a  very  fair  day 
Might  tempt  her  from  home  o'er  the  city  to  stray. 
(I  use  the  word  stray  for  the  rhyme,  let  me  say ; 
So  you  '11  not  misinterpret  my  meaning,  I  pray. 
She  stray'd  to  see  pi^ures,  and  lashio»  -.,  and 
friends ; 
She  stray'd  for  her  nealth. 
To  dispose  of  her  wealth. 
And  various  other  commendable  ends,  — 
To  sea  and  be  seen. . .    . 
You  know  what  I  mean ; 
In  fa<5l,  'twas  a  physiological  stray, 
Such  as  scores  of  young  ladies  take  every  day.) 
Now,  Miss  Arethusa,  for  that  was  her  name. 
Was  enough  to  set  anyone's  heart  in  a  flame ; 
For  a  lovelier  face  or  a  handsomer  form 
Never  took  a  poor  bachelor's  bosom  by  storm  I 
And  ne'er  through  a  crowd  did  shs  airily  float 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MSSO 

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84 


MMSODSS  OF  CITY  Un. 


W  lauded  her  eyes  so  melting  and  sweet ; 
And  some,  when  'twas  muddy,  fell  down  at  her 
feet; 

Some  glanced  at  her  lips.and  straight  for  a  season 
Betray  d  every  symptom  of  absence  of  reason  I 
All  sounded  her  praises,  and  I  must  confess 
That  even  the  ladies  commended  her  dress  . 

Well,  the  house  that  she  lived  in  was  house  No.  o. 

Wo.  7,  the  residence  honor'd  as  mine  • 

So  we  were  near  neighbors;  but  here  is  the  Joke. 

You  11  scarcely  believe  it.  we  never  once  spoke; 

Thot,mes  Without  number.  I  own.  with  a  sigh. 

I  ve  stepp'd  in  the  gutter  to  let  her  pass  by, 

Wh.le  never  so  much  as  a  glance  of  her  eye 
Betray'd  that  she  dreampt  any  mortal  was  nigh  I 
That  fa:r  Arethusa  was  haughty  or  proud 

Is  far  from  my  purpose  to  utter ; 
•Twas  the  SM-eep  of  her  garments,  it  must  be 
avow'd. 
That  brush'd  me  so  oft  in  the  gutter  • 
But  I  was  so  bashful,  and  she  was  so  nice 
That  neither  once  ventured  to  fra<5ture  the  ice 
Moreover,  true  gallantry  made  me  defer- 
All  my  rational  rights  in  the  sidewalk  to  her 


AKETtfUSA. 


In  fadl,  I  was  waiting  my  zeal  to  display 
In  some  very  romantic,  remarkable  way : 
For  instance,  to  seize  a  wild  horse  on  which  she, 
.     All  dangling  and  screaming,  might  happen  to  be ; 
To  snatch  her  from  fire  or  water ;  to  throw 
My  coat  o'er  a  puddle  as  Raleigh,  you  know, 
Once  did  to  protedl  Queen  Elizabeth's  toe  ! 
(But  that  was  an  age  when  the  ladies.  I  think. 
Were  much  more  secluded  and  guarded,  and  when 
Their  cheeks  would  assume  a  most  beautiful  pink, 
If  aware  of  the  gazes  of  two  or  three  men  : 
Content  to  be  women  — the  Vestals  of  Home,— 
They  seldom  in  search  of  adventure  did  roam; 
Their  rambles  in  public  were  fewer,  no  doubt. 
And  mostly  their  mothers  knew  when  they  were 

out. 
For  a  man  to  go  coating  the  dirt  now-a-days,  he 
Would  soon  be  a  pauper,  if  not  with  the  crazy  ! 
T  would  use  up  one's  wardrobe  so  fast  that  a  body 
Must  fall  back  on  fig-leaves  or  flutter  in  shoddy !) 
But  hold  ;  I  am  rambling  quite  out  of  my  bound.  . 
I  loved  Arethusa ;  but  love  had  its  wound. 

'Twas  twelve  monthp  ago,  on  a  very  cold  day, 
I  was  tramping  as  usual  the  oid  beaten  way, 
When  what  should  I  see  betwixt  me  and  the  sun. 


86. 


XPISODBS  OF  CITY  UFS. 


But  something  that  look'd  like  — you'll  think  I'm 

in  fun  — 
That  horrible  Gbje<5t  that  everyone  knows 
Is  placed  in  the  garden  to  scare  off  the  crows! 
I  adjusted  my  glasses  and  gazed  at  the  Thing, 
Expedting  each  moment  'twould  come  with  a 

spring 
At  my  throat !  —such  a  terrible  sight 
Would  scare  one  to  death  if  encounter'd  Ly  night ! 
As  it  was,  I  knew  not  if 't  were  bestial  or  human  : 
•T  was  surely  no  man,  it  was  hardly  a  woman  I 
Ungainly  and  awkward,  it  shuffled  about,  — 
Its  ogreisli  garments  flapp'd  in  and  flopp'd  out  I 
"  What  ho !    Is 't  a  witch,  or  an  imp.  or  a  ghoul  ? 
Or  the  Museum  mummy  broke  loose  on  a  stroll  ? 
A  nightmare  by  daylight?  a  Thing  of  the  brain? 
(Pah  I  .  .  .  never  eat  lobster  for  sup[jer  again  !) 
O  Mercy!  no  nearer!  Hence,  horrible  creature!" 
Was  just  on  my  tongue,  when  mine  eye  caught  a 

feature 
That  banish'd  my  passion  as  well  as  alarms ; 
For  alas  't  was  the  once-adored  bundle  of  charms : 
'Twas  the  fair  Arethusa  herself,  all  the  while, 
Disguised  in  the  latest  Parisian  style ! 


Sir  Norman  of  the  Val< 


SIR    NORMAN    OF    THE    VAL] 


A  DIM,  d-ep  Vale  with  shimmering  sunset  fill'd 
Soft  purple  haze,  and  shafts  of  golden  light ; 
On  either  hand,  broad  belts  of  verdure  spread 
Where  kingly  trees,  with  all  their  tall  tops  crown'd 
With  quivering  splendor,  seem  to  meditate 
And  sigh  in  solemn  chorals,  sad  and  low. 
Far  off  the  river  winds,  and  farther  still. 
Upon  the  farthest  verge,  the  silvery  gleam 
Of  ocean  ever  calm,  while  over  all 
Broods  undisturb'd  repose.  Save  yon  gray  towers. 
As  fix'd  and  sklent  as  their  craggy  base. 
It  seems  a  wilderness  untrod,  unknown. 

And  yet.  not  so:  along  these  lofty  aisles 
We  trace  a  footworn  pathway  o'er  the  turf,  ^ 
The  rude,  expressive  signature  of  man ; 
And  as  we  penetrate  the  deepening  gloom. 
With  every  sense  to  sight  or  soun  '  alert. 
89 


fO  S.'Jt  NOKMAif  OF  TtfM  Ya:  f. 

Strange  whispers  greet  us  from  the  knotted  trunks, 
Brown  leaves  take  wing,  and  twisted  roots  start  up 
And  wriggle  out  of  sight  among  the  ferns ; 
Weird  brambles  twitch  us  with  their  elfish  claws, 
And  unseen  hands  drop  acorns  at  our  feet  1 
For  thus  doth  Mystery,  with  her  magic  louch. 
People  the  wild  and  crowd  with  curious  eyes 
The  shadowy  wood.     The  still  and  sultry  air 
Is  dense  with  balmy  sweets  of  gum  and  flower, 
Of  last  year's  faded  wreath  and  ruajet  robe. 
Sudden  we  burst  upon  a  grassy  glade, 
A  weed-grown  garden,  and  a  vassal's  cot, 
Whose  opea  door  invites  our  ])i!grim  feet. 

Alas,  another  guest 's  expe<5led  here ! 
The  poor  life-weary  Forester  awaits 
The  icy  touch  of  death  to  set  him  free. 
His  wither'd  hand  a  fair  young  nuiden  chafes. 
And  in  mute  anguish  gazes  on  his  brow, 
As  though  in  every  line  she  read  her  fate. 

This  maid  is  Ethel,  daughter  of  an  earl, 
That  in  her  budding  infancy  was  snatch'd 
By  gipsy  prowlers  from  her  drowsy  nurse, 
And  svtriftly  borne  beyond  the  father's  ken ; 
And  neither  bribe,  not  threat,  nor  solemn  curse 


tTHMt. 

Could  ever  bring  her  to  hi,  arm,  again. 

So  when  no  tidings  came-no  track,  no  trace- 

Through  many  a  waning  moon,  the  widow',!  „n„ 

^^ha„h.s  wealth  and  titles,  power  and  fame. 
Was  torture  without  her.     One  day  that  band 

Of  swart  and  lawless  wanderers  encamp'd 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  Sir  Norman •s<,aks. 
And  n.gh  the  river's  rim,  and  Ethel's  feet 

^utiouswander'd  far  into  the  wood; 
^en,  lo,  she  met  the  vassal  and  his  s>n,  _ 
The  youngest  of  five  lads,  -who.  Edgar  named 
W«  now  h.s  Benjamin.  The  girl's  fair  locks 
And  innocent  blue  eyes,  the  old  man  judged. 
Mark'd  not  the  offspring  of  the  gipsy  LV 
.    But  questing  her,  none  other  source  she  knew. 

I  doubt  not."  said  the  father  to  the  lad. 
This  IS  the  lost  child  of  the  fallen  Earl: 

We  will  conceal  her  safe,  and  cast  her  cloak 
iieside  the  river  margent,  so  the  band 

W.11  deem  her  drown'd;  and  then  we  wii:  arise 
And  chase  the  vagrant  robbers  from  the  grove  " 
So  they,  with  tender-loving  hancs,  conveyM    " 
The  gentle  wand'rer  to  thei»  humble  roof 
And  hid  her  till  the  camp  was  broken  up.' 


9« 


S/Jt  HORMAH  OF  THK  VALX. 


Now,  Ethel  was  beloved  by  all,  —  by  Edgar 
More  than  all  —  the  tend'rest  tie  was  theirs; 
But  cruel  wars  aro«e,  and  one  by  one 
The  Forester's  strong  sons  were  swept  away 
Uix)n  the  crimson  flood,  until  not  one 
Is  left  ;  for  Edgar  has  been  three  years  gone 
With  brave  Sir  Norma:i  to  the  Holy  Land, 
And  never  a.message  came  to  tell  his  fate ; 
But  now  Death  comes,  with  separating  hand, 
When  Ethel,  stripp'd  of  all  on  earth  she  loves, 
Twice-orphan'd,  must  go  forth  v/ithout  a  friend  f 

But  hark !  what  means  that  trill  of  music  sweet. 
Now  rising,  falling,  faint  and  far  away. 
As  'vhen  the  Zephyrs  touch  the  trembling  cord  ? 
It  seems  some  distant  hunter's  silver  horn  ; 
And  Ethel's  ear  is  quick  to  catch  the  sound.  — 
With  wond'ring  eyes  and  pallid  cheek,  she  hears 
The  tiemulous  soft  tones.     Oh,  much  they  speak 
To  any  list'ning  ear  of  ended  strife. 
Of  home-returning  ranks,  of  foes  subdued, 
Of  conquest  and  dominion,  power  and  six)il ! 
But  she  —  one  question  only  would  she  ask, 
Which  answer'd  true,  the  rest  to  her  is  naught  — 
More  empty  than  the  bubbles  on  the  brook  1 


ETHEL. 


93 


"What  hear  you,  daughter?"  moans  the  dying 
man. 

"Death  comes  with  silent  paces:  ere  we  know, 

In  at  the  gate  he  glides,  and  strikes  the  blow  ! 

You  start ;  you  stare ;  you  list  with  bated  breath  : 

Fear  not,  my  child;  for  me  alone  comes  Death." 

"Comes  life !  "she  cries :  "  O  father,  can  it  be 

A  trumi)et-call ! " 

"Nay  I  hearest  thou  the  trump, 

And  I  not  hear,  who  have  most  cause  to  hear  ? 

For  me  it  calls.  " 

"  Oh  no :  't  is  Norman's  horn  ! 
That  silver  trumpet,  whose  imix:rious  call 

Wakes  up  the  drowsy  warder  on  the  wall, 
Unfurls  the  banner,  gives  the  bell  a  voice, 
Quickens  each  foot,  and  bids  all  hearts  rejoice! 
Sir  Norman's  horn  !  " 

"  Nay,  daughter,  nay,  —  not  yet ; 
'Tis  some  lone  woodbird  piping  for  her  mate." 
"  My  father,  no.     Sir  Norman's  horn  it  is  ! 
Hear  now  ! ...  the  great  bell  of  the  castle  swings, 
And  't  is  a  round,  glad  hour  irom  curfew-time. 
Oh,  many  a  bird  this  night  will  have  her  mate ! " 
"Lift,  lift  me  up,  my  ever-gentle  child, 
My  daughter  in  all  virtues  but  in  blood ; 


94 


i/X  ttORttAN  OF  THM  VAIJt. 


Prop  my  poor  head,  that  I  may  lose  no  note. 
No  whisiKr  of  that  horn.     Draw  back  the  blind  • 
Let  ,n  Goil's  blessed  air  and  the  sweet  breath 
Of  kine  and  flowers  and  trees, -my  poor  old 
trees !  ,  . . 

Oh,  but  how  grand  they  look  :  so  tall  and  strong  1 
Co<l  bless  them  all !  " 

"  '^'^^'■«  '  '^«ar  yoii  now  the  horn?" 
"Aye.  every  trill  I  hear.     It  brings  fresh  life. 
L.ke  Spring's  first  lark.     O  Ethel,  in  my  day, 
A  merry  day  were  this;  but  now  who  lives? 
Who  stirs?  .  . .  Fetch  me  my  hose  and  coat." 

"Your  coat  i" 
"Nay.  but  my  shrou<I,  my  shroud!     How  doth 
this  pijjc 

Bewitch  away  my  wits  !  I  did  not  dream 
To  hear  it  evermore.  That  my  old  heart 
Should  beat  life's  march  so  long,  who  could  have 

hoi)ed  ? 
Goal  Lord.  I  thank  thee  that  my  poor  old  eyes 
May  see  my  boy  again  1     I  shall  not  die  unwept. 
With  all  my  mourners  buried  ere  myself; 

For  I  did  sorely  fear  there  might  be  none 
To  close  my  filmy  lids  or  drop  frcm  theirs 
A  tear  upon  my  turf.    Tis  pitiful 


MTHML. 


95 


For  one  who  h*th  held  children  on  his  knee 
To  die  alone." 

" My  father,  where  am  I?" 
•'  In  my  heart's  core,  my  sweet ;  but  oh.  my  sons  I 
Eth»i.  my  sons  I  "... . 

So  did  he  sadly  mourn. 
Upheld  within  the  maiden's  tremulous  arms. 
Till  faint  and  far  the  music  died  a*  ay. 
Then,  gracping  Ethel's  hands,  a  strange,  wild  light 
Kindled  his  faded  eyes,  and  all  his  frame 
Shook  like  a  shatter'd  oak  that  strains  anC  groans. 
Struggling  against  the  tempest  and  the  flood. 
While  thus  he  spake  to  her :  •'  Ethel,  my  child. 
The  daylight  fails:  n.ght  comes  apace,  and  rest. 
The  past  is  past :  for  thee  the  future  smiles. 
God  keep  thee  as  the  apple  of  his  eye  I 
I  may  not  be  awake  to  greet  my  boy; 
But.  ere  I  sleep.  I  somewhat  have  to  say. 
Which  doth  concern  thee  much.     Great  change 

will  come 
O'er  all  this  goodly  land  ere  yet  thou  bear 
The  silver  crown  of  age  upon  thy  brow : 
I  hear  the  breathings  of  the  pitiless  storm 
That  soon  must  rend  this  vood.     With  Norman 
dies, 


S/Jt  NORMAtr  OF  THE  VALB. 


When  he  shall  die,  a  race  of  mighty  men, 

Who  have,  througli  generations,  held  the  rule. 

So  claim'd,  by  right  divine,  — we  having  none;. 

Except  to  serve, —  obedience  all  our  right. 

But  there  will  come  a  change,  as  I  have  said,  — 

Whether  for  evil  or  for  good,  God  wot ;  — 

For,  daughter,  I  have  noted  long  the  growth 

Of  lordly  trees  as  well  as  lowly  weeds: 

I've  mark'd  how  they  do  sprout,  put  forth  and  die; 

And  so  with  beast  and  bird  and  creeping  thing,— 

All  things  of  earthly  mould,  both  high  and  low:. 

Each  hath  its  time,  and  then  yields  up  its  room 

To  other  occupant:  nothing  abides 

But  either  runs  or  rots.     A  change  will  come ; 

I  know  not  what ;  but  when  the  leaves  are  sere. 

Is  winter  nigh.     The  dead  past  shrivel'd  up. 

The  threadbare  garment^  of  Old  Custom  soon 

Become  a  motley  jest ;  and  holy  rites, 

Sweet  manners,  gentle  usages,  and  deeds 

Of  knightly  pith  be  seen  no  more. 

And  then,  I  fear  me,  will  the  ties  that  bind 

The  nation  like  a  tree  from  t.ip  to  top,  — 

Sire  to  son,  subje(5l  to  suzerain  lord, 

Pastor  to  people,  — be  dissolved  like  snow 

r  the  sun's  eye;  while,  in  that  upstart  time. 


BTUSL. 


ft 


Will  honor,  virtue,  reverence,  and  truth 

Rot  at  the  core But  now  impatient  Death 

Tugs  at  my  skirts,  and  bids  me  gather  up 
My  few  last  words.     Sir  Norman  hath  no  heir,  - 
Mark  well,  my  child,  -no  heir  to  follow  him  ; 
And  whose  may  be  this  land,  when  he  shall  quit, 
Comes  not  within  my  judgment  nor  my  hope. 
But  this  much,  Ethel,  did  I  yearn  to  see,  — 
Leaving  the  issue  i"  the  heart  of  God,  — 
If  Heaven  hath  led  my  Edgar  back  to  me. 
That  thou  and  he  be  wed,  so  what  may  come. 
To  each  alike  may  come." 

"What!  Edgar  wed?" 
"  This  grafting  I  did  purpose ;  but,  my  child. 
Such  may  not  sprout :  for  thou  'rt  the  lily  fair 
And  he  the  weed.     Yet  sometimes  think  of  him ; 
Ah,  think  of  him  sometimes,  poor  churl,  when  thou 
Shalt  blossom  .<brth  the  Lily  of  the  Vale  I 
For  that  he  loved  thee  well,  I  well  do  know ; 
And  you  did  call  him  brother  —  loved  him.  too. 
And  were  indeed  as  one  until  this  day. 
Then,  if  thou  mayst  some  gracious  favor  show. 
Or  lighten  by  a  link  the  vassal-chain, 
So  do,  so  do,  and  thou  shah  have  reward." 
"(O  Heaven,  the  fatal  sign  !    Sweet  Reason  quits 


98 


S/K  UOKMAtf  or  THE  VALE. 


Her  crumbling  tenement,  and  leaves  his  mind 
The  sport  of  fantasy!).  .  .  My  father,  what? 
Wed  Edgar,  my  own  brother  and  my  blood  I 
Edgar?" 

"  Nay,  good  my  child ;  not  so,  not  so : 
Thy  brother ;  not  thy  blood.     Not  to  this  trunk 
Did  ever  such  fair  fruitage  owe  its  bloom. 
The  crimson  life  that  dances  in  thy  veins 
Is  alien  to  this  soil.     But  thou  shalt  know 
More  fully  by-and-by.  ...  I  was  to  blame 
In  letting  thee  so  root  in  my  poor  heart. 
And  bind  thy  tendrils  round  me ;  but  they  p'uck'd 
My  fruit,  my  blooming  branches,  my  sweet  boys ! 
And,  year  by  year,  I  thought  to  yield  thee  up ; 
But,  year  by  year,  I  less  could  yield  thee  up. 
As  more  and  more  you  wrapt  me  round  and  round, 
And  made  all  bloom  where  barrenness  had  been." 
"  My  father  !  oh,  how  strange  !  Why  yield  me  up? 
To  whom  yield  up?" 

"  Nay,  time  serves  not  to  tell  1 
But  thou,  ere  many  days,  shalt  know  it  all   ... 
I  couid  not  yield  thee  up.     But  I  was  wrong. 
I  did  thee  cruel  wrong ;  so  when  I  sleep, 
I  would  that  thou  to  Lady  Mabel  go,  — 
Sir  Norman's  gentle  spouse  and  thy  true  aunt, — " 


MTUEL. 


99 


"  My  aunt  f " 

"  Aye,  child  \  thy  mother's  sister,  she ;  — 
And  bear  this  vouch  «r,  which  a  clerk  did  write, 
And  my  teeth  bite,  wherein  is  truly  told 
How  thou  wast  found,  how  sheltcr'd  many  a  year. 
And  who  thou  art,  that  I  may  hope  for  grace. 
Th>s  do;  the  rest  will  come  as  Heaven  direft. 
And  now  I  Ve  said,  so  lay  me  gently  down. 
That  I  may  sleep  awhile  j  for  I  am  weak  - 
Sore  wea.y,  needing  rest.     God  bless  thee,  child  ! 
Wake  me  when  Edgar  come, -my  little  boy." 

With  folded  hands,  and  eyes  like  violets 
Dew-bathed,  sat  Ethel,  lost  in  thought,- 
Her  brow  upturn'd  to  the  slow-deep'ning  blue 
i*  round  her,  as  an  aureole,  the  light 
Fell  tenderly,  while  through  her  parted  lip. 
There  seem'd  to  breathe  a  prayer.     Oh.  who  may 
guess 

What  wonder-visions  visited  her  soul ! 
What  fragrant  memories !  what  ho,>es !  what  fear.| 
What  questionings  that  never  m.-..y  be  solved  1 
She  seem'd  as  one  awaken'd  from  a  dream ; 

Yet  doubtful  if  indeed  it  be  a  drer.m ' 

But  when  she  look'd  upon  that  face  again 

•T  was  still,  and  cold,  and  dumb:  she  was  alone. 


lOO 


S/Jt  NORMAlf  OF  THE  l^ALS. 


HOME  rROM  THr   WARS. 


lot 


Home  from  the  wars  again,  trill  lain  tra  lalaf 
Home  from  the  wars  a^aiH,  tra  lala  trill! 

Lailyfair,  lady-love,  rise  up  to  meet  us  ! 

Rosy  lip,  azure  eye,  open  to  greet  us/ 

Home  from  the  wars  again,  tra  lala  trill! 

Home  from  the  ivars  again,  trill  lala  tra  lala! 

Home  from  the  wars  again,  tra  lala  trill! 
Fill  the  howl,  shout  the  song:    we  shall  have 

pleasure  ! 
Love,  wine,  and  minstrelsy  flow  without  measure  ! 

Home  from  the  wars  again,  tra  lala  trill! 

Lone,  silent,  sad,  Sir  Norman  moved  along, 
And  curb'd  his  charger  with  a  nerveless  hand ; 
i:;s  dark  eyes,  downward  gazing,  fail'd  to  mark 
The  flowers  that  bent  obeisance  as  he  pass'd. 
He  secmM  as  one  with  secret  grief  oppress'd. 
Or  sick  and  weary  of  a  heartless  world,  — 
As  one  who  oft  into  the  sea  of  life 
Had  dropp'd  the  sotinding-plummet  but  to  find 
A  slimy  bed,  where  shattcr'd  argosies 
Wuh  ;.ll  their  silent  mariners  are  laid  I 
Yet  merrily  ambled  his  warriors  behind, 


Their  mirth  as  unregarded  as  the  flies 
That  fill  the  air  with  elfin  melody. 

For  now  the  wars  are  over,  and  they  come 
With  hearts  full-freighted  to  their  lady-loves. 
And  memories  charged  with  many  a  wondrous  tale 
Of  climes  remote  and  regions  of  romance, 
Where  truth  and  fable  mingle  in  the  clouds 
Of  gilded  dui.t  that  veil  the  wheels  of  Time. 
Of  wilds  and  phantom  lakes  they  have  to  tell ; 
Palm  groves,  and  cavalcades,  and  dusky  hordes 
Wrapt  in  the  fiery  mantle  of  the  sun  ; 
Tombs  tenantless  and  pyramids  immense,  — 
Mysterious  piles,  whose  shadowy  chambers  mock 
Th'  imjwtient  ear  with  mutt'rings  fain',  and  far  ! 
Of  silent  cities  glimmrring  o'er  the  plain,  — 
Titanic  bones  of  empires  dead,  unknown,— 
Pale,  marble  ghosts  of  dusty  dynasties ! 
Of  whisp'ring  Memnon,  and  the  awful  Sphinx, 
Whose  stern  and  stony  smile  doth  seem  to  hint 
Of  things  unutt'rable  and  ages  dim  ; 
Of  ancient  Nilus,  and  the  Middle  Main, 

With  tombs  of  mighty  monarchies  cnzoned, 

Famed  regions,  full  of  wonder  and  delight ! 
But  most  of  all,  of  that  most  hallow'd  Land 
Which  gave  Immanuel  birth,  will  they  unfold,-— 


IM 


SfX  UOKifAtr  OF  THS  yALS. 


That  sacred  shrine,  too  long  by  paynim  hands 
Possess'd,  -  the  Holy  Sepulchre !  -  but  now. 
Through  blood  and  treasure,  rescued  to  the  Faith 
And  much  of  stormy  billows  have  they  seen  ; 
Oi  shipwreck,  too,  among  the  Cyclades ; 
Of  weary  days  in  watching,  till  appear'd 
One  little  mote  upon  the  misty  verge. 
That  slowly  swell'd  into  a  sail,  -a  ship !  — 
A  friendly  fleet  to  bear  them  to  their  loves  I 

And  oh,  how  sweet  this  breath  of  native  air. 
Fanning  the  dust  of  travel  from  their  locks  > 
These  hills  and  vaies  and  groves  and  streams- 

how  fair  I 
What  gushing  music  babbles  in  the  brooks ! 
These  bosky  dells,  these  flower-enamell'd  fields. 
These  flocks  and  herds  and  little  twitt'ring  bird's, 
These  hawthorn  hedges  and  these  dusty  briers, 
These  wayside  weeds,  these  butterflies  and  bee's  f 
Sure,  never  did  they  heed  these  things  before. 
Though  born  and  nurtured  in  their  very  midst; 
But  now.  in  tearful  ecstasy,  they  kiss 
The  very  fringe  and  ravellings  of  Home! 

But  why  so  sad.  Sir  Norman  ?  Know'st  thou  not 
Those  queenly  towers  that  deck  yon  leafy  height 


MOMS  nOH  THK  IK,|a'?. 


103 


As  With  a  coronal  of  fretted  gold  ? 
Thrice  hath  the  monarch  of  the  rimy  beard 
These  branches  stript  and  hung  his  pearls  thereon. 
Since  o'er  ihy  crest  they  waved  their  verdure  last  • 
Death  hast  thou  met  and  dash'd  his  point  aside   ' 
With  such  a  brand  as  only  Norman  wields ; 
Thy  homeward  march  is  one  wild  peal  of  joy 
Where  maids  forget  their  madrigals  to  sing 
Your  praises  only,  as  your  banners  flout 
.   Their  wide-flung  casements;  every  favor'd  street, 
W.th  arch  and  wreath  and  rippling  pennon  gay, 
Roars  with  one  shout  of  welcome  to  the  brave  I 
And  now.  Sir  Knight,  but  wind  thy  bugle-horn, 

And  yon  gray  walls  will  tremble  with  delight  I   '     ' 
Then  will  the  link'd  and  studded  portals  ope 
Their  folded  arms  to  greet  thee,  while  the  draw 
Swings  creaking  down  to  span  the   limy  moat ; 
Then  will  each  court  and  corridor  resound 
With  hurrying  footfalls  and  enraptured  cries 
While  fluttering  figures  climb  the  topmost  towers 
To  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  thy  snowv  olume  1      * 
What !  yet  unmoved  ?    In  sooth,  but  that  must  be 
A  heart  of  lead  bereath  thy  golden  mail  I 
Thou  comest  agai.i  the  vi<5lor  as  of  old. 
And  walk'st  so  high  above  the  wond'ri^g  world 


I04 


S/X  IfORMAlt  Or.THR  VALB. 


That  Envy  hangs  her  head  in  dumb  despair, 
And  Malice  finds  no  mark  to  point  her  shaft ; 
Yet  dost  thou  bear  thee  with  so  mild  a  mien,  — 
Thy  glory  veiling  with  so  sweet  a  grace»— 
That  little  children  dance  about  thy  feet, 
And  throw  with  dimpled  hands  their  dainty  kiss. 
The  very  trees  do  image  forth  thy  deeds ; 
The  fountains  gush  thy  praise  ;  the  dewy  flowers. 
With  cunning  skill,  Sir  Norman  of  the  Vale, 
Are  train'd  to  blush  thy  name;  the  stately  bird. 
Mistaking  for  the  sun  thy  dazzling  shield. 
Unfolds  the  gilded  splendor  of  his  train. 
While  all  the  forest  hails  the  rising  morn  ! 
Then  wherefore  droop,  since  every  heart  is  thine? 
We  can  no  more ;  ami  yet  so  dark  and  dumb  ! 
Not  thus  do  heroes  fly  to  love's  embrace 
And  find  the  guerdon  of  their  valor  there. 
But  Norman  murmurs  sadly  to  his  soul  : 
"And  is  this  all  — the  sum  of  all  my  life  — 
Thes-  passing  voices  and  these  fading  flowers? 
Men  have  less  cause  to  lovw  ..e  than  to  fear; 
'ITien  wherefore  shni.t  they  '  welcome '  as  I  pass, 
And  ring  their  hollow  flatt'ry  in  my  ears? 
A  grateful  tear  upon  a  vassal's  check 
Were  gem  more  lustrous  to  my  secret  soul 


fOMS  noat  THM  UTARS. 


-  I— HfcB  . .. 


Than  purest  diamond  in  monarch',  crown. 
I -ould  to  God  that  I  were  all  they  say 

B:t;:T''''^^°"^--^^'^^-3feit, 

W."'^'      '^^'"P'>''«-Ptyan..ndvain. 

Wth  self-love  at  the  root:  men's  heroes  are 
The  m,g„,fi,,  ^^,^^.^^  ^^  ^^^^^^^ 

The,ro^vn  distorted  shadows  on  the  wall 

For  we  .hat  hold,  in  arbitrary  grasp. 

Men  s  hves  and  fortunes,  never  reach  their  heart, 

Nor  know  how  thev  esf^,.m  .     •      u  •    "^  "**™' 

So  ,h,n       •     .  "*  '"  *^«''  souls; 

So  shal  ow  .s  the  homage  that  i,  paid, 

rhereis  no  safety  ,n  extorted  power; 
Tjsbu.lt  on  sand,  and  great  must  be  its  fain 
In  bondage  to  the  shadow  of  a  shade, 
T  were  better  serfs  were  bidden  to  our  board,. 

Than  for  themselves  discover  they  are  men,  J 

Wh,ch  one  day  they  must  find;  for  men  they  are. 
Wuh  w.ngeo  thoughts  that  lift  them  to  the  skies 

-  soar  i.ke  eagles  o'er  the  jealous  walls 
That  h.de  the  weakness  of  th.; ^^ 

•The  /ax/and>./,.  the  wither'/sibyl  «id  '  "  ' 
And  these  two  ominous  words -the/..,  and /.... 
-Keep  up  the.r  ceaseless  echoes  in  my  mind 
Drownmg  all  other  sounds,  both  right  and  da'y> 


lOJ 


io6 


S/»  tfOKMAlf  OF  TH2  VAtM. 


The  last  I  am  indeed ;  but  how  the  first  ? 
Ah,  would  that  I  had  skiil  to  solve  that  hffw  t 
For,  in  the  dark  and  complex  web  of  life, 
A  golden  thread  may  run  from  edge  to  <rdge. 
And  we  not  catch  the  glimmer  till  too  late  I .  .  . 

Tliat  Heaven  denied  me  children  for  some  end 

Some  deed  to  do  —  't  were  impious  to  doubt. 
So  will  I  school  my  mind  to  scent  that  end. 
And  do  the  deed,  wherever  it  may  tend  !  " 
Then  grew  Gir  Norman  dumb  again,  and  seem'd 
To  mingle  with  the  shadows  of  the  grove. 

Meanwhile,  the  tremor  of  trampling  hoofs. 
Tinkle  of  trappings,  and  murmur  of  tongues 

Come  louder  and  louder,  nearer  and  nearer, 

Come  with  the  dust-cloud  dimming  the  tree-tops. 
Come  with  the  silvery  clangor  of  trumpets 
Shaking  their  melody  over  the  vale  — 
Quivering,  caujht  up,  and  flung  back  from  the 

towers. 
Sec  throi  ;h  the  branches  the  gleaming  of  lances, 
Fiashing  of  helmets,  and  flutter  of  plumes  I 
Home  from  the  wars  again,  home  from  »he  wars  I 
Rings  the  old  castle  wiih  plaudits  of  welcome ; 
Reels  every  turret  with  revelry  wild  1 


MOMM  FROM  THB  WARS. 

^o,v  mernly  sit,  my  comrades  all. 
And  lay  the  sword  away  • 

^J^'^'^  ^''''^  flowers  the  festal  hall, 
The  beakers  fill,  the  minstrels  call; 

^ft  every  heart  be  gay  ! 

^"'ly,  holly,  holly,  aha,  aha,  aha 

W-  'veput  our  vaunting  foes  to  rout. 

And  made  the  traitors  siving; 
Then  push  the  flagon  roundabout  - 
^  first  that  falls  we  'II  turn  him  out. 
The  last  shall  be  our  iing/ 
^"^^y'^-^fy,  holly,  aha,  aha.  aha  f 

Sytoh>  ^ad  thoughts  of  those  we  left 

Beneath  the  cypress  and  the  palm,  - 
Of  sorrowing  souls  and  luarts  bereft, 

For  whom  there  is  no  balm,  — 
Steal  in  /a,  j^,„f^^^  .^^  ^^^^^^^ 

ff-'hen  least  we  dream  of  d.-.-.th  •' 
And  while  we  pledge  the  sainted  slain 
They  seem  to  stretch  their  viewless  'han-*, 
Athwart  the  billows  and  the  sands, 
And  grasp  our  oion  again  / 


107 


. —  -^Hi 


io8 


SIK  HOKMAtt  OF  THE  VALM. 


Beside  his  grave,  beneath  the  yew,  they  stand, 
Edgar  and  Ethel.     In  their  features  blend 
Rapture  and  anguish,  with  some  subtler  force 
That  seems  despair,  as  though  invisible  hands 
Did  sunder  them  forever;  yet  entwined 
They  stand,  mingling  their  tears  —  utt'ring  few 

words ; 
But  those  few  full  and  deep.      'T  is  that  one  hour 
Which  comes  to  every  soul  —  that  fateful  hour 
Whose  every  moment  burns  into  the  heart. 
And  leaves  imperishable  record  there 
To  the  last  pulse,  — the  keystone  hour  of  life  I 
Than  she  no  fairer  ever  man  adored. 
Than  he  no  worthier  ever  woman  loved ; 
And  they  were  one  from  infancy  to  this 
Dark  hour  of  agony  beside  the  grave  — 
This  grave,  which  doth  unite  them  and  divide : 
She  to  the  homage  of  a  hundred  knees, 
He  to  his  rustic  toil.     But  Cod  alone 
Holds  in  his  heart  the  issue  of  this  hour,  — 
This  burning  hour  beneith  the  yew's  deep  shade  I 

Sir  Normrn  was  the  last  of  all  his  line; 
And  though  in  all  the  annals  of  his  house 
No  baseness  ever  stain'd  one  noble  name. 


hamml. 


109 


■± 


Sir  Nomun  was  the  glory  and  the  prime; 

And,  like  an  autumn  sun,  the  name,  with  him, 

Went  down  in  splendor  o'er  the  withering  leaf 

And  fruitless,  sapless  trunk  of  Chivalry. 

As  v-Iiant  as  the  best,  a  nurer  air 

His  loftier  spirit  breathed,  ^nd  none  there  were 

Among  his  royst'ring  peers  could  measure  him. 

In  his  demesne  an  ancient  abbey  stood. 
Where  many  a  pensive  hour  Sir  Norman  pass'd 
In  ghostly  reverie  or  converse  deep 
Of  questions  never  raised  in  camp  or  court; 
Naithless,  no  gloomy  anchorite  was  he. 
Nor  one  to  chill  the  fervid  noon  of  joy 
With  dismal  clouds  of  spleen -engendered  creeds. 
But  life  IS  more  than  festival  and  war. 
And  more  than  wealth  and  land.  reno>^  and  love  • 
(So  whisper'd  Reason)  and  he  must  achieve 
Some  deed  more  worthy  to  embalm  his  name 
Than  bidding  wine  in  ruddy  rivers  flow. 
Or  aiding  love-lorn  damsels  in  distress, ' 
Or  hunting  timorous  creanirp«  cf  »k«  <:-ij 
Or  winning  laurels  in  the  tournament. 
Or  hewing  red  roads  through  embattled  hosts,  - 
Though  peerless  he  in  every  knightly  grace.   ' 
So  'mid  the  whirl  and  flush  of  revelry. 


no 


Srit  NORMAN  Of  THE  VALB. 


The  sweetest  music  lost  its  power  to  please; 
The  rarest  nedar  of  all  sunny  climes 
Flow'd  by  his  lips  unquaff'd  ;  the  richest  fruit 
That  ever  hung  round  Autumn's  swarthy  brow,  — 
Nay,  even  woman's  sweet,  sed.iitive  charms,— 
All,  all  were  impotent,  insipid,  vain  ! 
Led  by  the  pensive  Spirit  of  the  Night. 
He  moved  away  unmark'.l,  and,  thrusting  back 
The  silken  folds  that  round  the  casement  fell, 
Stepp'd  forth  upon  the  parajx-t,  and  gazed 
^  Full  long  and  silent  down  the  dizzy  steep ; 
And  then  with  folded  hands,  as  if  in  prayer. 
He  raised  his  sad  eyes  to  the  sleepless  stars  :' 
Th-  eternal  glory  of  those  awful  heights,  — 
So  infinite,  so  populous,  so  still  !  — 
The  dreamy  landscain:  and  the  whisp'ring  winds 
Calm'd  down  the  troubled  currents  of  his  heart, 
And  thus  he  breathed  into  the  ear  of  night : 
"Ye  worlds,  ye  almost  spiritual  hosts 
That  stand  about  heaven's  vestibule  to  guide 
Lone-wand'ring  spirits  o'er  the  sunless  gulf, 
Anu  shudder  lest  they  miss  the  n.^rro^v■  way,  — 
Hew  do  ye  shame  with  your  unchanging  beams 
The  majesty  of  man !     In  vain  he  builds 
Upon  the  rock-ribb'd  earth  for  |H.-rpetuity, 


MABBL. 


lit 


And  plants  his  ensign  on  the  buttress'd  wall 
And  dreams  that  marble  shaft  and  gr.nite  pile 
Shall  awe  the  coming  ages  with  his  name  < 
A  few  years  pass-how  few!_and  men  shall  ask. 
Who  rear'd  these  crumbling  pillars?  '  but  receive 
No  answer  ;  nay.  not  ore  to  t  Jl  of  him  • 
Whence,  then,  this  airy  spirit  that  o'erleaps 
The  narrow  Ln^unds  of  time,  when  time  itself 
So  quickly  sifts  the  dust  uijotv  his  pride? 
And  what  is  giyen  to  feed  this  flattVing  ho,x;. 
Which  Heaven  has  cradled  in  all  human  hearts, 
rnnt  ive  may  live  immortal  as  the  stars. 
With  whom  we  fondly  link  our  destinies? 
Oh,  it  must  be  the  boundless  love  that  flows 
In  the  broad  bosom  of  humanity ! 
For  will  not  every  drop  of  tl:at  great  heart 
Swell  to  a  sea,  on  which  a  blessed  name 
Shall  float  through  time  into  eternity?" 
Thus  tpuch;  and  o'er  his  brow  there  beam'd  a 
light. 

That  not  the  stars,  but  Heaven  alone  did  she,! : 
Then  swei)t  a  wave  of  music  on  his  ear. 
That  brought  him  back  to  earth  and  self  again. 
"  How  like  the  din  of  bedlamites  and  fools. 
These  silly,  wanton  songs-this  noisy  mirth- 


iia 


S/K  UOJUfAU  OP  THK  VALK. 


This  revelry !    Nay,  seems  it  not  profane? 
Here,  in  this  charnel-house  that  men  call  Earth, 
This  narrow  gateway  of  infinitude,  — 
Porch  of  eternity  — heaven's  vestibule  !  — 
To  feast  and  laugh  and  sing  and  dance  and  dream! 
Yet  wherefore  should  I  judge  the  idle  moth, 
That  scorns  the  joyless  prudence  of  the  ant, 
Which  in  the  tranqi.illest  hour  of  summer's  'prime 
Doth  hear  the  marshalling  of  wintry  storms? 
Why,  if  these  lightsome  revelers  obey 
The  motions  of  their  souls,  as  I  do  mine, 
They  may  be  worshiping  !     Men  are  unlike, 
As  you,  ye  myriad  orbs ;  yet,  as  ye  beam. 
Some  wondrous  bright,  some  faint  and  far  away. 
Are  ye  not  all  as  it  were  best  to  be?" 
"Ah,  but  they  hear  thee  not!"  a  sweet  voice 

trill'd: 
"  They're  not  so  near  as  I.    God  rules  yon  lowers : 
Our  duties  do  not  stretch  so  far  away; 
But  round  our  feet,  among  the  weeds  and  flowers, 
In  the  plain  light  of  ilay.     Then.  Norman,  love,' 
Why  gauge  the  heavens  for  wisilom  such  as  that. 
And  leave  the  bowl,  fair-kiss'd,  to  blush  for  thee. 
And  all  thy  guests  \\\yo\\  the  top'and  plume 
Of  this  night's  happiness?    1  marveU'd  much 


HABML. 

What  phantom  purpose  lured  you  from  my  side. 
And  more  admired  what  held,  till  round  my  heart 
i  I'e  icy-coiling  terrors  'gan  to  fold  I 
What -what,  I  fancied,  if  his  brain  grow  dazed 
With  th.s  obstreperous  rout,  and,  leaning  o'er 
I  he  battlements  to  medicine  his  lungs 
With  wholesome  air,  his  powerless  fingers  slip  f 
y^.i !  then  I  saw  upon  the  rocks  beneath 
A  sight  most  dread;    and  forth  the  cold  drops 
came,  "^ 

Beading  my  brow,  till  I  could  bide  no  more 

Now  I  shall  ever  fear  those  murd'rous  rocks  f 

Why,  Norman  dost  thou  hear  ?  Oh.  speak  to  o^e  I" 
But  Norman  stood  transfix'd,  and  gazed  at  her 

W.th  eyes  that  saw  not  her,  but  some  dim  form, 

borne  visionary  creature  of  the  mind 

A  million  leagues  beyond,  and  vaguely  sigh'd 

"The/astami^rtt/" 

Whereat  she  tinkled  out 
A  timid  laugh,  and  vow'd  that  he  was  like 
The  whisp'ring  Memnon  ;  then  a  shadow  oass'd 
Ali.wart  her  pleading  features  as  she  said. " 
"  'T  is  most  ungallant  to  forsake  the  field 
And  all  your  doughty  knights  at  such  a  pinch  r 
And  thou,  the  Flower  of  Chivalry,  consent 


114  S/M  WOKMA/f  OF  THE  VAtM. 

An  empty  stool  should  bear  me  company  I 
What,  if  some  other  claim'd  that  vacant  throne? 
Tea  well  thou  know'st  that  I  am  thine  alone  " 
"Sweet   Mab."   he   answer'd.   "thou  art  mine 
alone." 

Then  bending,  lightly  kiss'd  her  dewy  lids 
And  lips  all  tremulous,  and  closer  press'd 
Her  lithe  form  to  his  bosom  as  he  breathed  : 
"Aye,  thou  art  all !  ....  But  I  do  truly  grieve 
If  I  have  lessen 'd  by  a  feather's  weight. 
The  pleasures  of  this  night.     Thine  ears  did  steal 
The  coinage  of  my  dreams:  alas,  fair  thief. 
Thou  art  not  much  enrich'd  !     For  I  do  lack 
That  sweet  philosophy  that  maketh  thee 
A  flower,  a  bird,  a  child  ;  nay,  better  still, 
An  angel  pure." 

"Oh  no,  my  lord,  not  I: 
I  'm  but  a  woman,  with  a  woman's  heart,  — 
Now  sad,  now  glad,  -a  woman, -nothing  more 
Nor  less, —thy  wife." 

"  Yea,  so  thou  art  indeed  ! 
Thank  Henven,  tho,,  .,rt !   O  .Mabel,  save  in  thcc, 
How  poor  and  bankrupt  is  your  Norman's  life  I 
How  empty  o^  all  purpose,  end,  and  aim  ! 
How  like  a  glimmering  taller  dying  out 


Mabel. 


"5 


In  dark,  oblivious,  everlasting  night  f " 

•' Oh,  think  not  thus,  my  lord :  't  is  neither  just 

Nor  wholesome  thus  to  think.     Your  sun  of  life 

Hath  not  yet  reach'd  his  noo,-your  moon. 
Her  full  -  your  year,  her  summer  prime :  as  yet 
Your  fruit  is  green,  your  harvest  still  to  come."   ' 
Scant  crop,  and  brief  the  time." 

,,,  "  The  longest  life 

n-spent  were  brief;  the  briefest,  long,  that  serves 
Life s  purposes:  but  then,  we  little  know 
Of  thmgs  so  deep.     What  necessary  point 
Of  kn.ghtly  'complishment  doth  Norman  lack? 
Is  w^    pure,  brave:   what  more  shall  Norman 
be?" 

•'  Aye,  't  is  this  more  belittles  all  the  rest ! 
For  all  the  rest  are  only  painted  show., 
That  for  an  hour  make  slaves  forget  their  chains- 
ihis  mor,  surrounds  us  l-ke  a  murky  mist 
.Engender'd  on  the  deep,  and  inland  roll'd 
Obscuring  heaven  and  earth  in  sable  folds.' 
There  looms  a  sha// de  of  so  vast  a  size, 
That  all  our  have  beens  dwindle  to  a  dot ! 
^^ain  is  the  gloty  that  is  reap'd  in  blood  • 
Who  draws  the  sword  shall  ixjrish  with  the  sword  • 
Endunng  power  is  b.nit  on  love  alone. 


ii6 


S/Jt  NOKUAlt  Of  T/fS  yALM. 


There  is  in  every  soul  a  reaching  out 
To  years  unborn."  .  .  . 

" '-'^y,  Norman,  is  it  thou ! " 
And  Mabel  slipp'd  his  arms  and  backward  drew 
In  mimic  wonderment  and  lovely  scorn  : 
"  ^°''  ^"^  ^  <^°*>  ?    Nay.  't  is  a  cap  and  plume  I 
And,  holy  sire,  is  this  a  sackcloth  robe 
Hung  o'er  thy  lean  and  penance-blister'd  back? 
What !  velvet,  sir,  .md  'broidery  of  gold, 
And  gems  that  twinkle  brighter  than  ^he  'stars? 
A  sword  forsooth  !  —  is  that  thy  crucifix? 
And  this  thy  rosary,  u  silver  chain  ? 
With  silken  sash  in  lieu  of  hempen  rope? 
Oh,  what  a  galliard  monk  and  reverend  knight ! 
For,  marry,  both  in  thee  are  mix'd  and  marr'd." 
Then,  with  her  white  hands  perch'd  upon  his  arm. 
Like  coupled  doves,  she  coo'd  into  his  ear : 
"  O  Norman,  love,  be  never  less  than  thou : 
Your  mind  with  too  much  pond'ring  haib  been 
warpt 

To  one  incline,  and  springs  not  back  again 
To  all  its  fair  prcportions  without  strain. 
Your  one  thought  is  the  gangrene  of  the  mind: 
It  eats  and  eats  till  all  is  foul  disease ; 
Tis  like  a  lens  that  bends  a  million  beams 


MABSU 


"7 


To  one  bright,  burning  point-a  fiery  dart; 
Or  as  a  brook,  when  choked  by  drifted  wrack 
Frets  out  a  lawless  channel  through  the  fields,' 
And.  gathering  force  from  evVy  tiny  rill. 
Sweeps  down  with  wild  destru^ion  to  the  deep 
No,  't  is  not  healthy,  Norman,  mark  you  that  • 
For  what  is  madness,  but  a  mind  possess'd,  -' 
Enslaved  and  fashion'd  to  one  tyrant  thought?" 
"Nay,  fear  not.  Mab;  my  madness  will  not  harm 
The  slightest  film  of  whatsoe'er  is  right; 
But  p'rhaps  it  may  imiieril  what  is  wrong,— 
A  very  lamb  like  madness,  I  assure  ye  ! 
As  yet  I'm  safe  enough  :  a  thousand  thoughts 
Hold  parley  in  my  mind;  but  action  sleeps. 
When  I  have  shaped  the  purpose  to  my  mind. 
You  surely  shall  be  judge ;  till  then,  s-ng  on." 
"  Ah,  cruel  you,  to  whet  my  appetite, 
And  then  withhold  the  fruit !     But,  woe  i,  me  I 
I  know  too  much,  I  fear,  about  it  now,  - 
My  little  fingers  can  untwist  those  threads. 
That  have  not  fnrm'd  themselves  to  firmer 'web 
Than  mix'd  and  filmy  tangles  in  your  brain." 
"  I  would,"  he  said.  "  you  were  an  or.i<  le  !  " 
"And  I."  quoth  she,  "  taat  you  were  all  you  are; 
Yet  could  I  wish  me  ither  than  I  am, 


-TJ^.  ■      -^^-■^--■^..    , 


IK 


"•  '«'"'-•*•  or  nw  y^u. 


1°'""  T""""""^ ''"'■«"•»■>  I." 

O  Norman  m,„e  I  ,he  myr.le.Ieav«  ar.  green 
G»dk„o«.^„fr„,n„„i,,„„„,         . 

"Thou  know'st  me  nn»  •»  i.-      •_• 

sighU  '     ''^  '"'^'  »"d  deeply 

••Let  not  such  false  lights  flicker  in  your  soul 
W  they  have,  many  n,oons,  in  .iLgoTeout 

ThaHh  T  ';''  ^'""^  '"  '^'  ^  loftier  fligh' 
Than  ty  fond  spirit  broods  o'er  .„  distress 

War.  d.to  being  oy  the  heart's  embrace. 
Shall  not  the  issue  of  the  mind  alone 

Surv,ve  the  charr'd  foundations  of  the  world? 
Nayw         ,,,^^^      I've  had  n,y  fortune  tod.' 

D.d  I  ne'er  ten  t-e  that?  There,  there;  Why  sof 

l-merryasakidl-still.  it  was  strange 
Cut  let  roe  tell  it  you."  *^ 

"  Oh,  let  it  be 


MABKU 


Its 


)  Nc  lighfsome  tale,"  she  moan'd :  •«  for  such  I  have 

No  stomach  now." 

"  Nay,  't  is  as  dark  as  night ! ' ' 
He  darkly  said. 

"  Oh.  prithee,  then,  be  mute ! 
My  spirit  swims  in  shadows  even  now." 
"  Well,  Mab,  my  tale  shall  be  a  twilight  one," 
He  answer'd  smiling :   "  neither  dark  nor  light ; 

But  both  or  either,  as  you  may  divine 

One  noon,  in  Palestine,  as  we  encamp'd 
Within  the  cin^ure  of  a  cypress-grove,  — 
For  such  there  are  beneath  the  fiercest  skies, 
Fair  children  of  the  sunshine  and  the  dew, 
That  heartless  ruin  hath  not  heart  to  blast,— 
There  came  a  dusky  woman  and  her  boy,  — 
A  wild-eyed,  wolfish,  hunger-bitten  pair. 
Chance-nurtured,  dwelling  in  the  tombs  with  bats 
And  basilisks :  I  see  that  woman  now,  — 
Her  weird,  fantastic  garb,  her  skinny  claws 
That  hawk-like  grasp'd  the  little  dole  I  dropt. 
When  she,  in  words  interpreted  to  me. 
Unfolded  all  my  past  And  future  deeds  I 
I  swear  to  thee,  as  page  by  jjage  she  read 
The  annals  of  my  life,  I  was  amazed  : 
She  knew  me  better  than  I  knew  myself! 


ste 


S/*  ifORtlAtf  Olt  T/fS  VAtM 


And  What  she  prophesied  haeh  come  co  pas.. 

In  all  save  this  alone,  that  I  should  be 
T/u  first  of  all  my  lineage  and  the  last 

I  never  told  thee  this:  what  think  you  of 't?'' 
Think?  I  think  it  strange." 

"Wonderful  is 't  not?" 
Most  wonderful  ndeed! " 

„c  "Sothinkl,  Mab." 

Surpassing  wonderful,  that  thou       t  hoard 
^  ah  all  thy  golden  wealth  such  worthless  dross  I 
:  hou  art  deceived :  thy  dragon:a...  no  doubt. 
Was  some  old  friend  of  thine  wl.o  kenn'd  thee 
well, 

Frhaps  held  thee  on  his  knee,  and  knew  as  much 
The  barb  rous  jargon  of  the  gipsy  hag 
As  did  yourself:  some  oily  Judas  monk. 
I  warrant  you,  as  crafty  as  a  fox. 
Whose  guile  is  only  e^ual'd  by  his  greed. 
Twas  thus  and  thus:  let  me  thy  Daniel  be. 
To  read  the  mystic  writing  on  the  wall : 
Thy  days  are  number'd  and  thou  hast  no  heir 
To  all  thy  rirh  domain.     Thou  aft  the  Ia.1  • 
But  give  the  Church  thy  lands,  and  thou  sh'al,  be 
1  he  hrst,  the  best,  the  flower  of  all  thy  house  • 
O  Heaven !  what  greed,  what  gluttony,  what  guile 


MABKL. 

What  everything  that',  bad  i,  misnamed  Church  I 
How  can  such  solemn  mockery  survive  !  " 
*;  Stay  stay  1  my  Tttle  wife  doth  speak  too  fast  f 
The  Church  is  holy,  though  her  priests  be  flesh: 
She  .s  the  Mother  at  whose  breasts  we  feed; 
She  IS  the  Guardian  to  whose  arms  we  flee.  - 
We  must  revere  the  Church  ;  but  who  shall  walk 
This  dusty  world  and  not  pollute  his  feet? 
Not  feeble  men ;  then,  so  much  more  the  need 
Of  blessed  shrive;  for  even  monks  are  men  " 
"I-  faith,  and  so  they  be  I  and  fat  men  too ; 
Though  some  of 'em  be  lean  ;  but,  o'  the  twain. 
I  like  the  fat  ones  best ;  for  they  sleep  most. 
And  so  are  out  o'  mischief.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  know 
-  11  burn  for  heresy  some  rainy  day !  .  . . 
But  say,  did  not  your  meek  interpreter,— 
Your  very  dusty,  very  fleshly  monk,  — ' 
Just  breaCie  -just  whisper  some  such  pious  hint?' 
"My  ghostly  father,  who  was  standing  nigh. 
Did  hazard  some  such  jest,"  Sir  Norman  said ; 
But  did  I  never  tell  it  thee  before?" 
"  No,  never,"  she  replied ;  "  nor  could  I  I.ope 
To  hear  such  fancies  till  your  eyes  be  dim, 
A.id  four-score  winters  powder'd  on  your  b,  ,w  r 
Would  that  your  ghostly  father  were  a  gho^  / 


t»» 


StK  NOKMAH  OP  THK  yALS. 


I  knew  it  well :  so  like  the  mitred  Leech, 
That  sucks  and  sucks  the  life-blood  of  the  land  !  " 
"  Nay,  Mabel ;  mock  me  not  nor  jest  at  Fate  • 
*Vhat  Heaven  decrtes.  may  -nortal  man  escape?" 
"  Wh:t  Heaven  decrees,  we  wish  not  to  escape; 
But  when  Heaven  warns  of  what  Time's  womb 

contains. 
The  hallow'd  message  com^  not  through  the  lips 
Of  crafty  monks  or  skinny,  wrinkled  hags; 
But  angels,  pure  and  viewless  as  the  breath 
Of  od'rous  airs  that  scarce  the  aspens  move. 
Glide  soitiy  as  the  moon-beam:  'round  our  couch 
And  fill  our  inmost  soul  with  heavenly  light!  " 
"True,  Mabel,  true;  for  so  t.,ey  come  to-night! 
Yet  heed  me,  love :  e'en  now.  as  I  did  ^aze 
Along  yc  n  quivering  dome,  I  saw  a  star 
Most  wond'rous  bright  fly  wildly  from  her  throne, 
Dimming  her  sisters  till  herself  grew  dim. 
And  then  was  seen  no  more,  -  some  Hagar  orb. 
Driven  forth  of  heaven  to  weep.     What  bodes  it 
Mab? 

See  you  no  sign  nor  portent  in  the  sight  ? 
Or  was  it  one  more  world  to  judgment  call'd,— 
Some  poor,  sad  world  like  ours?  Yet  listen,  love; 
We  hear  no  discord  in  th'  eternal  hymn. 


itAMMU 


»»3 


Nor  i.  Nighf.  crown  le«  lovely  by  the  lo«.  - 

So  little  miss'd  is  one  so  lair  a  gem ! 

What  would  you,  Mab?" 

QK     ,^.      •        "'*°"'**'"l"oth  she,  "that  you 
Should  learn  how  time  flies  by  your  flying  star,  I 
For  now  have  vacant  seats  been  long  enough 
Our  deputies:  the  wheel  of  pleasance  droops. 
The  axle  being  removed.     To-night,  my  liege, 
_'hen  all  these  wassailers  have  slid  them  down 
*'  »«^'«»ey  slumbers,  and  the  halls  are  void 
And  voice  no  ruder  than  the  cricket's  chirp 
Disturb  the  silence  of  our  crowsy  towers, 
I'll  whisper  somewhat  in  your  willing  ear,' 
Will  populate  your  brain  with  dancing  d-eams  " 

So  went  they  in,  and  left  tne  battlements 
To  bats  and  fairy  revelers  in  the  dew. 

Oh,  sweet  be  all  thy  dream,  love; 

^sMy,  happily  rest,  — 
Pure  as  the  silvery  beams,  hve. 

That  dapple  thy  heavifif  breast  f 
Nothing  can  harm,  nothing  alarm 

Thee,  my  own,  my  best; 
For  sleepless  Love  ar-mnd,  above, 
Doth  ward  thy  silken  nest! 


m» 


x»4 


S/Jt  tfORItAH  OF  THE  VALB. 


The  mellow  twilight  deepens,  and  the  night 
Sinks  softly  o'er  the  vale.     Like  some  stern  chief. 
Forgetful  of  his  wounds  in  dalliance  sweet, 
The  grim  towers  deign  to  smile.  No  sounds  awake 
But  such  as  soothe  the  ear :  some  vesper  bell 
Slow-swinging  far  away,  some  tinkling  lute 
High  up  in  yon  recess,  and  the  faint  sigh 
Of  the  night-rising  breeze.     There  is  a  spell, 
A  witchery  in  the  hour,  more  weird,  methinks, 
Than  middle-night ;  for  then  the  watchful  stars 
Companion  us:  but  in  this  gloaming  time,  — 
In  such  a  place  as  this,  —dim  spedtral  forms, 
Pale,  hollow-eyed,  are  seen,— unquiet  souls. 
Who  shun  the  light  and  murmur  in  link'd  pairs 
Beneath  the  elms.     Ah,  well-a-day  !  may  Heaven 
Forefend  us !     See !  with  silent  steps  they  come. 
Two  human  figures,  gliding  o'er  the  lawn,  — 
A  maid  and  cavalier  !     The  dusky  light 
But  half  reveals  their  features ;  yet  we  start 
At  some  remember'd  likeness  as  they  pass. 

And.  meltinor  inf/%  cV.~,i«   ^ ^--^ 

'---'--o '  »"ti_-.,  a:c  Seen  no  more  i 

Come,  let  us  in  :  the  night  grows  chill  and  dark. 

And  either  ghosts  or  lovers  haunt  this  park. 


THK  CKEAT  DAY. 


125 


Like  waves  that  leave  no  trace  upon  the  sands 
Of  all  their  beauty  and  of  all  their  might. 
The  days  flow'd  on,  till  one  day  went  there  forth 
Swift  pursuivants  through  all  the  wide  domain. 
Proclaiming  to  Sir  Norman's  vassalry. 
That  in  the  castle-yard  on  such  a  noon, 
They  gather,  all  who  may,  both  old  and  young. 

Then  was  there  doubt  and  wonder  in  the  land. 
And  anxious  dread,  when  many  a  mother  wrapt, 
Within  convulsive  arms,  her  tender  care. 
As  ever  she  would  moan,  "  Who  will  provide 
For  these  our  little  ones,  if  he  be  gone  — 
Their  only  hope  ?    Oh  why.  Sir  Norman,  why 
Is  war  so  sweet  to  thee,  that  is  to  us 
So  full  of  bitterness?    O  wretched  life  I 
To-day,  all  nestling  in  our  lowly  cot ; 
To-morrow,  wrench'd  asunder,  ne'er  to  meet ; 
Our  pottage  season'd  with  unceasing  tears; 
Trembling  at  night  for  what  the  morn  may  bring. 
Our  innocent  babes,  that  should  be  founts  of  joy, 
O'erflow  the  bitter  cup,  since  they  are  nursed 
Not  for  the  comfort  of  the  breast?  they  press. 
But  the  wild  license  of  a  lordly  will  | 
What  hope  have  we  in  life  ?  "     And  so  the  night 
Was  darken'd  with  despair,  till  rose  the  morn 


ia6 


S/Jt  NOKMAtf  OF  THB  yAL£. 


O:  doubt-dispersing  day,  what  time  she  spread 
Her  heavy  wings  and  vanish'd  o'er  the  hills. 

Hail,  Morning!  emblem  of  immortal  life, 
Of  youth  and  beauty  and  eternal  joy,  — 
All  fresh  and  fragrant,  as  with  rosy  smile 
Thou  shakest  the  dewy  pearls  from  thy  green  robe 
And  leaning  o'er  thy  couch  of  purple  cloud,        ' 
Dost  g,ld  the  mountain-tops  with  hues  of  heaven 
A  million  hearts  rejoice  !-the  forest  rings  i_ 
And  the  lone,  weary  watcher,  v-ho  hath  long, 
In  tears  and  darkness,  waited  for  thy  light, 
Takes  up  his  hymn,  "  Now  lettest  thou,  OLord 
Thy  servant  part  ir:  jn^ace  ;  for,  lo,  mine  eyes 
Have  seen  the  dawn  of  Liberty  and  Love, 
And  the  long  night  of  Tyranny  and  Strife 
Fade  out  forever  from  this  new-born  world  f  " 

O  Day  to  be  remember'd  through  all  time,— 
When  in  the  furnace  of  all-potent  Love, 
Fair  Birth  and  Worth  were  molten  into  one! 
O  bright-wing'u  Day  !  in  amber  song  embalm'd. 
And  5ang  fr.ro'  ail  il.e  years  by  Freedom's  soni  I 
Sang  when  the  rosy  lads  and  lasses  dance 
Around  the  May-pole  to  the  merry  pipes; 
Or  blithely  labor  in  the  s^-aming  fields,  ' 


•tf 


Tit  a  CKSAT  DAY. 

The  skylark  caroling  the  clouds  among; 
Or  through  the  starry  paces  of  the  night. 
Their  fleecy  care  from  wolfish  fangs  defend  ; 
Or  at  higu  noon,  beneath  umbrageous  boughs. 
Behold  their  sleek  kine  mirror'd  in  the  pool.      • 
'.»'here  lilies  float  like  fairy  fleets  becalm'd ; 
Or  when,  with  rustic  melody  and  mirth. 
They  hail  the  creaking  wain  of  harvest  home; 
Or  merrily  ring'd  around  the  Christr    ,  Jog, 
Petell  the  legends  of  the  dim  old  days. 

Now  o'er  Sir  Norman's  walls  gay  banners  float. 
Gay  sights  are  seen,  and  festive  sounds  are  heard 
The  bridge  is  lower'd,  and  slowly  up  the  nath 
That  winds  and  zig-zags  to  the  castle  gate, 
Men,  women,  children  move  in  motley  groups: 
Here  sturdy  lads  their  weaker  sisters  lead. 
And  there  a  mother  holds  her  nursling  babe; 
And  next,  a  father  bears  his  rosy  boy,  — 
A  pippin  munching  in  his  dimpled  fist ; 
Young.  lusty  hinds,  stout-limb'd  and  full  of  life. 
With  maidens  coy  and  blooming  as  the  flowers   ' 
They  slyly  wander  from  the  path  to  pluck. 
But  ere  the  shadows  crept  beneath  the  walls. 
The  latest  stood  within  the  castle-court. 


138 


Sn  NORMAlf  O/r  THE  yAU. 


No  word  or  shout  was  heard ;  but.  deep  and  low, 
Up-droned  a  murmur  as  of  swarming  bees 
Or  far-o/r  billows,  till  the  great  bel.dang^d 
.        ^^^^.''-^"^"oon.  and  stoo<l  Sir  Norman  forth 
In  vjew  of  all. -.hen.  like  a  mountain  storm 
Sudden  and  wild,  a  mighty  cheer  went  un: 

God  save  our  liege.  Sir  Norman  o' the  Vale! 
Long  hve  Sir  Norman,  our, iege  lord  and  true- 
Loud  blared  the  trumpets,  and  the  tumult  ceased- 
Then  cam.  Sir  Norman's  words  to  every  ear  •        ' 

Ye  have  obey'd  my  summons  well  and  true 
As  ever  was  your  wont  when  duty  <  all'd         ' 
And  battle's  crimson  banners  ^vaved  on  Ligh 
But  now  the  wars  are  over,  and  secure 
We  may  with  honor  lay  the  sword  aside 

And  delve  again  our  long-negle.fled  fields." 

God  bless  our  liege !  "  a  woman  .  voice  rings  out, 
Whereat  a  thousand  treble  voices  ring 
In  chorus  wild.  "Amen  !  God  bless  oJr  liege  - 

Then  spake  Sir  Norman.  "Heaven  defend  us  all, 
Twas  on  your  breasts  the  fury  of  the  waves 

r  irst  beat  and  snent  their  fnrco .  v^   ►      • 
TL      ,„.    .        ■  "'"^'"'^^^:  yestooa  as  stand 

.  ihe  clins,  immovable  around  our  land  ! 

And  ever  will,..    And  now  the  deep  bass  rolls: 

And  ever  will! '.Then,  stretching  out  his  hand. 


I, 


TUS  CKMAT  DAY. 


129 


Sir  Norman  spake  again :  •'  T  is  rich  reward 
To  know  that  we  have  done  our  duty  well : 
The  conscience  of  a  traitor  is  a  wound 
That  hath  no  remedy  in  heaven  or  hell  1 
But  ye  are  good,  true  men.  who  love  your  land. 
Your  wives,  your  children,  and  whose  noble  deeds 
Are  writ  in  many  a  scar  that  all  may  read ; 
So  't  is  w.y  purpose  that  you  have  the  rights 
Your  loyalty  has  won  — your  full  desert  — 
What  God  to  you  hath  given,  but  man  withheld ; 
And  hence  this  boon  will  be  the  gift  of  God, 
Whom  humbly  thank  for  all  that  may  ensue.' 
These  lands  that  I  do  hold  by  right  of  birth, 
Are  mine  alone  ;  and  with  them  do  I  claim  ' 
What  thereon  is.  hath  been,  or  e'er  shall  be.  - 
All  forest,  field,  and  stream,  and  what  therein 
Do  live  and  move  of  fish.  bird,  beast,  and  man; 
To  use  or  give,  to  hold  or  to  divide. 
And  he  who  challengeth  my  lawful  right 
May  now  or  never  make  his  title  good." 

He  paused  and  reverent  bared  his  ample  brow. 
As  though  recording  angels  hover'd  round. 
Meanwhile  the  trumpets  blew  a  billowy  blast 
East,  west,  and  north,  and  south. -to  ev'ry  point. 
That  roll'd  along  the  walls  from  tower  to  tower,  ' 


»30  SrX  HOKMAM  OF  THE  VALR. 

And  broke  in  answering  echoes  down  the  vale. 
Then  came  his  deep  voice  o'er  the  breathleji 
court : 

"There  cometh  none  my  lawful  right  to  doubt; 
So  now  give  heed  and  witness  to  my  will, 
Which  in  few  words  I  here  make  known  to  all: 
"  In  God  his  name,  amen  t    I  now  proclaim, 
/>ww  this  day  and  forever  are  you  fre\  — 
Free  of  all  fief  or  feud,  tithing  or  tax. 
Save  what  with  your  consent  may  be  imposed; 
Nor  without  twelve  good  men  of  like  estate 
Thereto  agreed,  shall  any  be  condemn' d 
Of  whatsoever  crime  he  stand  accused 
In  open  court,  wherein  for  all  alike 
Shall  even-handed  Justice  hold  the  scales. 
Free  to  go  forth  as  men  with  sacred  rights. 
To  labor  for  yourselves  and  little  ones  ; 
Thai  you  may  train  them  in  the  love  of  God, 
Thrir  Country  and  their  King,  and  without  dread 
Of  mortal  man.     That  howier  lowly  be 
The  four  walls  of  your  dwelling,  they  shall  stand. 
By  st>Umn  laws  inlrenc/t  d,  impregnable 

^'■""nd  your  hearths  .-through  ragged  loop  and  rent, 
IVmd,  rain,  or  hail  may  visit  you;  but  not 

The  King  himself  may  come  within  your  gates." 


TMM  CKtAT  DAY. 


»3« 


He  ceased,  and  naught  the  sudden  silence  broke. 
Save  darting  swallows  twitt'ring  o'er  the  walls; 
,  ^o*"  "cordless  wonder  sate  on  every  face : 
They  fathom'd  not  the  gift,  —  they  only  knew 
That  some  great  boon  was  granted,  but  no  more. 
-     And  so  the  swallows  twitter'd,  till  arose 

One  deep  breath,  long  repress'd,  when  each  did 

search 
The  other's  face  for  answer,  still  in  vain. 
Then  mutely  turn'd  they  to  the  balcony. 
As  though  to  find  solution  of  their  doubts; 
But  all  had  vanish'd  save  the  sentinels, 
Whose  pclish'd  armor  glitter'd  in  the  sun. 

But  while  they  stood  amazed,  and  what  to  do,— 
Whether  to  weep  or  laugh,  to  go  or  stay,— 
Knew  not,  the  great  doors  open'd,  and  a  host 
Of  nimble  menials  roll'd  the  viands  forth,  — 
Great  tuns  of  beer  and  mighty  trenchers  hcap'd 
With  savory  meats  and  wheaten  bread  and  fruit, 
'  In  wonderful  profusion  and  the  best. 
And  then  came  minstrels  and  gay  troybadou«,  — 
Their  bonnets  garlanded  with  faded  flowers 
That  once  did  kiss  the  Arno  or  the  Rhine, 
Or  sip  the  dews  of  Andalusian  fields, 
Or  star  the  green  champaigns  of  Languedoc  ;  — 


IJJ 


S/Jt  IfOttMAtf  OF  THE  VAtK. 


And  motley  clowns  with  visage  woebegon^ 
And  quips  that  "set  the  table  in  a  roar;  " 
And  tumblers  walking  with  their  heels  in  air 
And  morris-dancers  capering  round  and  round, 
And  pretty  pages  with  their  golden  curls, 
And  high-born  maids,  and  gallant  cavaliers. 
And  grizzly  vefrans  of  a  hundred  fields  • 
And  then,  unheralded,  Sir  Norman  came'. 
With  genial  smile  and  golden  sentences   ' 
That  ne'er  should  gather  dimness  from  negledl 
But  1.1  remembrance  bright  and  burnish'd  be,-l 
A  joy  in  every  season  fresh  and  full ! 

Yet  did  the  churls  their  r;^on  catechise 
•"Can  this  be  Norman's  self?"_that  mighty  man. 
Whose  very  name  was  ever  breathed  in  awe  1 
"  How  manly-clear  the  music  of  his  voice  I 
Albeit  he  speaks  the  very  words  we  speak.— 
The  same  old  mother-language  of  our  lips' i  •• 

So  while  they  pass'd  the  beaker  hand  to  hand 
And  wonder'd  at  the  bounty  of  their  host. 
And  wonder'd  at  the  castle's  massive  strength 
And  wonder'a  how  much  bacon  was  consumed. 
And  hov  much  beer,  and  bread,  and  fruit. 
And  what,  withal,  was  meant  by  being  free,— 
Tliey  were  like  children  wand'ring  in  a  maz'e- 


THB  CJt£AT  DAK 


'33 


'^^^PWMBfcifcfc  I 


A  fairy-haunted  wood :  .  golden  mist, 

A  dreamy  light  half  hid  and  half  reveai'd 

The  unfamiliar  splendor  cf  the  scene  ' 

What  they  had  reach'd  beyond  thi^  banqueting. 

1  ney  fail  d  to  grasp-no  doubt,  some  mighty  gift 

^swam  before  their  vision  like  the  moon. 
When  tawny  vapors  scud  along  the  sky,  - 
Now  dimly  seen,  now  swallow'd  up  and  lost  - 
They  stood  bewilder'd  on  the  borderland- 
The  hazj'  hounds  betwixt  the  Old  and  New  • 
They  did  not  feel  that  Vassalage  was  dead,* 
They  did  not  know  that  Liberty  was  born ; 
They  saw,  but  could  not  comprehend,  the  signs 
Uf  dissolution  and  renascent  life. 
Nor  hear  the  trumpets  of  advancing  Change  I 
But  such  a  merry  day  was  never  known 
In  all  the  land  :  a  day  of  jollity. 
Of  dextrous  feat  and  game,  of  feast  and  dance 
And  sweet  forgetfulness  of  toil  and  care. 
The  fallow  deer  fled  off  in  wild  dismay. 
And  hid  in  deepest  shade :  the  restl-cs  rocks 
Wheel'd   round   their  lofty  holds  in  chatfring 
flights,  . 

And  the  brown  rabbits  burrow'd  in  the  ferns 
Along  the  dappled  lawi.s  fair  children  skipt. 


»34 


*'*  ^OltMAlf  OW  THK  y^u. 


0,d„onc..d^,l.„,3wo„d„.d„orea„d 
At  all  they  «..  and  kne.  not  why  they  wept 

Ma?eS'''^^°^°-^°-^^"-he:rr:„„ 

Made  golden  v.stas  down  the  long  green  lane. 
The  trumpet  «,u„ded  and  the  great  J,  swle' 
T^-gather'dallthe.ultitud!abou^"' 

T>.eportarsnurble  steps,  whereon  appear-d 
Md^h.nggen«.gayrol.s.andnodd^gpL„ 
S^r  Nor„,an  and  the  Abbot  of  the  Vale 
When  every  foot  and  every  tongue  was  hush'd 
To  in,p.tating  silence.  Norn,an  said: 

One  sumner-day  a  lovely  pearl  was  n,i«-d 
Fr^m  out  the  priceless  treasures  Of  an  earl. 
Keen  search  was  made  on  every  side  U  vain 

Ands^re  the  great  heart  bled;  he  wasal; 
Wuh  none  to  share  the  burden  of  his  loss 
For  over  all  his  wealth  this  pearl  he  priJd  - 
The  Parfng  gift  of  his  sweet  bride  in  heav;n 
But  lest  h.s  heart  be  wither'd  up  With  gre 
Ere  yet  the  budding  promise  Of  his  youth 
Should  npen  into  deeds,  he  drew  his  blade 
And  bravely  falling  ,,h  the  fallen  bravf' 


I  THMGKMATDAr.  ,„ 

bid  leave  alon-  the  shadow  of  a  name. 
But  ere  the  last  breath  flutter'd  in  his  breast, 
He  wl.:5per'd  thus  unto  hi,  trusty  friend. - 
'If  r^y  lost  pearl  should  ever  come  to  light 
Entrust  it  only  to  a  brave  man's  care.' 
So  all  remembrance  of  the  missing  gem 
Died  out.  save  in  the  bosom  of  that  friend 
Now,  what  befell  this  pearl,  and  where  't  was  hid 
Through  many  a  weary  year,  and  by  what  hand 
Twas  filch'd,  and  by  whom  found,  'twere  long  to 
tell:  * 

Suffice  to  know  't  was  kept  with  sacred  care 
That  did  reward  its  guardian  wondrous  w.  ' 
Full  many  a  brave  man  follow'd  us  to  war 
Whose  mighty  shades  we  humbly  follow  now.- 
Who,  as  they  stood  upon  the  utmost  verge 
And  gazed  with  undimm'd  eyes  upon  the  sun 
Qf  immortality,  eclipsed  us  all ; 
And  dumbly  did  we  watch  them,  glory-crown'd, 
O  erleap  life's  Uurn  and  stand  among  the  gods  - 
But  one  there  lives  amone  the  favor'd  fe-^  _ 
Whose   name  burns  bright  among  the  brightest 
names,  — 

Hath  carn'd  by  valor  and  Vy  «,!emn  troth. 


.■•'> 


«3<  SrX  IfOKMAU  Of  THE   VALt. 

ThI.  perl."    And  then  Sir  Norman  waved  hi. 
hand 

And  said.  ..Bring  forth  the  long-lost  pearl - 
The  pnceles,  recompense  of  love  and  worth  I 
Take   Edgar,  take  your  Ethel  to  your  arms. 
And.  holy  father,  make  the  n  ever  one." 

L.ke  sw,ns  emerging  from  the  tufted  reeds 
That  barricad  .-  some  secret  river-cav^ 
Came  Mabel  slowly  through  the  bend;ng  plume,. 
The  modest  maiden  leading  by  the  hand 

Pearl-white  was  Ethel's  robe;  her  sunlit  curl,. 
A  golden  fillet  bound,  from  which  a  rose 
Droop'd  down  and  kiss'd  the  rose  upon  her  che  - 
At  first,  deep  admiration  held  each  tongue  • 
But  when  the  groom  advanced  to  meet  his  bride. 
A  sudden  tempest  swept  o'er  ^..  the  court, 
And  like  quick  waves  that  tumble  to  the  cliff 
The  eager  gossips  press'd  around  the  door. 

Then,  crimson-curtain'd.  died  the  gorgeous  day  • 
So  came  the  New,  so  pa^s'd  the  Old  away. 


Miscellaneous  Poemj 


^MISCELLANEOUS     POEMS. 


THE    RIVER. 


Dark  hulls  of  ships  and  slimy  wharves  the  turbid 
river  laves, 

And  round  and  through  the  city  pours  her  melan- 
choly  waves. 

Oh  ravish'd  Riven  free  nor  pure  thy  tide  shall 
ever  be, 

Now  Mammon  with  his  sooty  swarm  has  claim'd 

and  fetter'd  thee ; 
•Tis  thine  to  own  the  tyrant  power  that 


ocean  seals. 


earth  and 


To  bear  his 


burdens 
million  wheels; 
»39 


en  thy  breast,  and  whirl  h 


is 


I40 


MtSCELLAlfEOUS  POEMS. 


He  curbs  thee  round  with  stake  and  stone,  and 

chains  thee  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  bids  thee  crouch  beneath  his  hand,  a  slave 

forcvermore ! 

Once,  how  beautiful  and  bright 

Did  she  mingle  with  the  main,— 
Dancing,  leaping  in  delight, 

As  a  wand'rer  home  again  ! 
Gaily  dimpling  through  her  channels, 

Misty  years  that  reason  mock, 
Years  that  have  no  other  annals 

Than  her  writing  on  the  rock  ! 
Now,  her  youth  and  beauty  fled. 
Flows  she  loveless,  joyless,  dead ! 

Hark  f  through  sobs  I  seem  to  hear 
Pleading  murmurs  soft  and  clear  : 

Know  me,  ere  you  judge  me  so ; 

Walk  beside  me  as  I  flow, 

Up  beyond  the  slimy  slips, 

Up  beyond  the  shady  ships, 

Up  beyond  the  bridge  and  quay. 

Up  where  I  am  pure  and  free. 
Come  and  see  me  gush  and  glide, 


THE  RIVEK. 

With  a  gently  flowing  tide. 
In  my  stainless  maiden  pride : 
Through  the  meadows  green  and  gay, 
Where,  the  blithesome  children  play. 
And  their  fair  limbs  dip  ar.d  lave 
In  my  cool  refreshing  wave  ; 
By  the  clover-perfumed  mead, 
Where  the  calm-eyed  cattle  feed  ; 
'Neath  the  willows,  round  the  hill. 
By  the  old  deserted  mill ; 
By  the  hollow-crumblirg  bank, 
Where  the  grass  grows  long  and  rank, 
Yet  a  fragrance  in  the  air 
Tells  of  sweet  buds  lurking  there ; 
By  that  fai.y-haunted  spot, 
Deck'd  with  sad  forget-me-not ; 
Where  the  branches  throw  their  shade 
Over  many  a  mossy  glade. 
That  for  love  alone  were  made. 
Come  up  farther,  where  I  dally 
With  the  tall  rccds  in  the  valley, 
And  among  them  gleam  and  glisten, 

Till  you  think  I  cease  to  flow; 
But  you  '11  hear  me,  if  you  listen, 
Murmur  songs  the  lilies  know  — 


I4» 


«4*  tascsLLAvaovs  posits. 

Whimple,  ripple,  -.i-gie,  babble 
Liquid  lays  th    .ilies  know  | 

Upward  to  the  deep  dark  basin 
Border'd  round  with  tufty  sod, 

Where  the  swallow  dips  her  pinion. 
And  the  angler  trails  his  rod. 

Yet  farther  along, 

Where  the  valley  grows  narrow, 
I  flash  like  the  lightning, 
I  shoot  like  an  arrow  1 
Ha !  ha !  and  I  shout 

In  the  freedom  I  love  ; 

The  clouds  grow  amazed. 

As  they  mantle  above  1 

When  roaring  in  thunder, 

The  wild  leap  I  take, 
The  giant  trees  wonder. 

And  tremble  and  quake; 
But  as  I  rush  past  them, 

I  fling,  in  my  play. 
O'er  branches  iQw-hending, 

A  wreath  of  my  spray; 
And  then  my  sun-lover, 
With  cheek  all  aglow, 


TMS  RiVSR. 

Iteth  gaze  wiih  such  ardor, 
I  blush  him  a  bowl 


»43 


Now  onward  and  upward  you  tread  by  my  side. 

Till  the  great  hoary  mounuins  arc  seen- 
Through  ages,  and  ages,  and  ages,  my  tide 

Hath  scoop'd  out  that  fearful  ravine! 
Tlien   on  to   the   wind-whisp'ring  forest,  whose 
sod 

The  foot  of  no  venturous  pilgrim  hath  trod, 
But  where,  by  the  -eam  of  the  stars,  you  may  see 
The  slow  stealthy  panther  ccmc  gliding  to  me. 
Or  the  deer  from  her  covert  stoop  over  and  shrink 
From  he-  shade  in  my  depths  as  she  pauses  to 
drink. 

Still  forward  you  struggle -the  forest  is  pass'd  • 
My  own  native  mountain  lifts  proudlv  at  last  - 
My  own  native  mountain  whose  peak  is  a  throne. 
Where  reigns  the  Ice-Father  eternal  and  lone 
Who  dreams  not  of  earth  at  his  measureless  hi.h. 
but  holds  with  the  planets  communion  of  ligh"!  I  ' 
And  now  you  may  res:  by  my  cool  cavern  door. 

As  you  hear  the  drip,  drip, -drip,  drip  en  the 
floor; 


'44  fiSCSCLAJfSovS  Posits. 

Wh.  '    '''  '"  ">«  ''"'"Is  of  earth 

vh    r™^" """•"■'■•  ^'--f-yt'.!.- 

»viiere  diamonds  sDarkl*.   o„^     i  /""in. 

T„  sparkle,  and  silver  and  told 

in  nunsians  of  beautv   'm.-^  .         ^°'°' 

"'  oeauty,   mid  marvels  untold. 

Flow  on,  queenly  River, 

While  mountains  endure: 

As  bounteous  and  pure 
As  Nature,  the  giver ! 
Roll  down  to  the  sea. 

In  thy  far-windingway: 
From  tindure  of  clay 
Thy  spirit  is  free,  -- 
And  forever  will  rise 
In  vesture  of  white, 
To  bathe  in  the  light 
Of  the  sapphire  skies  I 


trow. 


MS 


NOW. 


Oh,  tell  us  not,  young  minstrel,— 
With  thy  harp  of  silent  string, 
•  And  thy  hope-forsaken  visage,  — 
"There  is  nothing  now  to  sing." 
While  a  blue  sky  bends  above  thee. 
And  a  heart  is  left  to  love  thee. 
Oh,  tell  us  not,  young  minstrel,  there' is  nothing 
now  to  sing  I 

.  At  the  awful  shrines  of  Nature 

Has  thy  reverent  spirit  bow'd  ? 
Have  you  seen  the  deep  in  tempest. 

And  the  mountain  thmngh  the  cloud? 
Have  you  heard  your  heart's  quick  paces 
In  the  lone  and  silent  places,  — . 
And  beats  it  but  to  murmur.  "Th«e  i,  nothine 
now  to  sing"? 


j.jtUMmjL"'E««"'q.><i' 


«44  mscSLLANXOUS  POStfS. 

Is  there  nothing  great,  heroic,— 

Nothing  noble  in  thy  kind  ? 
Is  the  soul  without  her  pinions, 

And  the  world  without  her  mind? 
Is  no  pleading  voice  to  move  thee, 
And  no  worthy  cause  to  prove  thei  ? 
Oh  think,  before  you  murmur,  "There  is  nothing, 
now  to  sing!" 

Who  crown  the  Past  forever 

In  her  halo-circled  state. 
Save  the  souls  that  battled  bravely 

In  the  strifes  that  made  them  great? 
And  all  the  thrilling  story 

Of  their  greatness  and  their  glory 
Is  but  the  very  prelude  of  the  spng  that  you  may 
sing !  ' 

Then  deem  not  Thine  as  idle 

Asa  taper  in  the  day,— 
Be  it  true  to  that  is  truthful. 

It  may  never  pass  away  ; 
For  all  the  golden  t-ssus 
Of  man's  labor  is  the  issue 
Of  minds  the  world  thought  dreaming  when  they 
never  ceased  to  sing. 


SOHTMG  AUD  JttAJ'/MG. 


And 


ur 


One  sang  for  fame  and  glory. 

One  for  truth  and  heaven  above; 
One  sang  for  light  and  freedom. 
One  for  beauty  and  for  love  • 
E*ch  at  first  the  word',  derision. 
Till  the  years  unseal'd  the  vision, 
they  're  now  among  the  godiike   for  the 
•ongs  that  they  did  sing  J 


Sow  thy  seed,  O  husbandn.an  f 

What  though  others  reap: 
It  will  burst  the  shell  and  rise. 

Sip  the  dew  and  kiss  the  skies,' - 
Sow  thy  seed,  and  sleep. 

In  thy  labors  thou  shall  Ih-,— . 

I5ust  alone  is  dead, 

Ever  falls  the  shine  and  rain. 

Ever  springs  the  golden  grain; 
All  the  worlds  are  fed. 


S4S 


if/SCJttXAtrKOUS 


fVSIfS. 


ALCOHOL. 

;^WK  in  the  rcal„,s  of  endless  woe. 
They  held  a  council  long  ago  • 

And  round  their  ch,ef  the  dark  fiends  came 
Crown'd  with  diadems  of  flame. 

Peers,  -said  Satan,  "Powers  of  Hell, 
I  charge  ye  now  that  ye  may  tell 

In  what  the  subtlest  curses  dwell. 

Vl^ere  shall  we  «arch,  where  sha:i  we  find 
A  th.ng,i,h  all  the  ills  combined. 
To  damn  and  desolate  mankind - 
A  million-tssence  that  unites 

All  crimes  and  curses,  pains  and  blights- 
One  which  m.y  seal  the  human  fatef' 
lellme.  infernal  Powers  of  Hate  I  " 

Then  groan'd  a  horrid  murmur  round. 

L.kef»r-uff  thunder  in  the  sound. 

G,r^;;:^^;-;^.^--^-they 

ar.  Daie.u.  un  tneir  iieii)iess  prey 

Growrdone...Here'sFamine-sessencesore 
Tw.ll  gnaw  man's  vitals  to  the  core 

And  make  hi.,  do  the  deed  of  death' 


ALCOHOL. 


149 


:iS****'*'**- • 


That  he  may  gasp  another  breath." 
•"Tiswell!  'tis  well  .."each  demon  cries, 
And  sparkles  flash  from  flaming  eyes 

Another  hiss'd,"  This  poison'd  dart 

Is  forged  to  pierce  the  human  heart; 

'Twill  make  man  grovel  in  the  dust 

In  all  the  beastliness  of  lust !  " 
"'Tiswell!  'tis  well  I- each  demon  screams. 

And  fiercer  still  each  eye-ball  gleams. 
"And  this."  another  howi'd  with  glee. 
"  Contains  the  juice  of  misery  : 

War.  bloody  War! -how  red  it  flows  I 
This  cup  brims  o'er  with  human  woes  1 
•Twill  wring  the  t^ars  from  orphans'  eyes. 
Like  rain  from  out  the  wintry  skies; 
•Twill  rive  the  widow's  heart,  and  send 
Uncounted  myriads  to  their  end." 
" 'TIS  well!  'tiswell!     Be  this  the  curse: 

No  fiend  in  hell  can  wish  for  worse  !  " 
"  ^'«"ds  J  "  roar'd  a  demon  with  a  yell 

That  shiver'd  through  the  caves  of  Hell.  _ 
"  Away  with  all  your  aches  and  pains. 
Your  famine,  war.  and  winter  rains'l 
See  what  this  grinning  skull  ccntains ! 
We  brew'd  it  in  the  deepest  hell, 


ISO 


HtSCELLAlfROUS  H3SMS. 


A-dknoWt Will  work  the  mischief  well: 
The  essence  this  of  every  woe 

Of  every  crime  that  demons  know. - 
All-potent  in  this  skull  you '11  find 
The  soVreign  Curse  of  humankind  • 

In  this  the  Dew  of  Hell  you  see 
And  Alcohol  its  name  shall  be! •'• 

At  first  deep  silence  reign-d  throughout; 

rhen  roli-d  one  wild,  discordant  shout.  1 
^•s  done,  'tis  done!    Be  this  the  cur;e  • 
No  fiend  in  hell  can  hope  for  worse!"     ' 
Up  at  the  heavens,  his  scepter'd  fist 
Then  Satan  shook,  and  howl'd  and  hiss'd 

Through  gnashing  teeth.  ..Now.  if  you  cat., 
Proted  and  save  you    ..vor'd  Man 
Dev.se  some  way  by  which  you  may 
Pluck  from  my  grasp  the  pamper'd  clay  '• 
Then,  turning  to  the  fiends,  he  said. 
Haste,  haste  land  let  him  be  your  head. - 
Your  chief -who  bears  the  Cup  of  Death;. 
And  hke  the  s.moom's  scorching  breath. 
Sweep  earth,  until  nor  track  nor  trace 
Of  God  shall  mark  the  human  race  " 
So  swarm'd  they  forth,  and  thus  began 
The  curse  of  Alcohol  on  Man 


STMAh 


»S» 


STEAM. 

THROt/GH    CRAWDfATHER's    SPECTACUItS. 

OhJiow  you  plague  me  with  your  whirr  and  puff. 

Thou  cloud-compelling,  all-propelling  Steam  ! 
Of  thee  I  ve  seen  and  felt  and  heard  enough. 

Heaven  knows  I  since  many  a  sweet,  romantic 
dream 

(That  Shakespeare  truly  tells  us  is  the  stuff 
We're  n    \     r  v^t  thou  scatter'd  with  thy 
sere    , 

J^"^'^^^ of  my  sylvan  shade  I 

(The  F.  R.  R.  is  through  my  orchard  laid.) 

I  grant  tha^  thou  art  mighty,  and  hast  wrought 
Great  changes  in  the  land,  and  given  to  man 
A  superhuman  magnitude,  and  brought 

•-.itj  VI  ;;:c  wona  wiUiin  a  span  • 
But  which  of  all  the  virtues  owes  thee  aught  ? 

Is  human  nature  purer,  loftier  than 
When  winds  were  made  the  objeds  of  devotion 
And  holy  rites  appeased  the  god  of  ocean  ? 


tsa 


MrSCBtLAKBO'JS  POEMS. 


What  .hough  ,/,h  fi.„<,i,h  ^,„  „„„ 

"'^       ^  "  you  -^t/Zashin  

Yon  clanking,  reekinir   f         ,    r      ""P' — 
Where  .r«»K  ^^'""&.  f'        '^g  forge,  I  pray? 

The"     .'"'"^^^''^''-^-^•''•^ndd^p? 

Anda,."^^''^'''^P^--^'— gay. 
And  all  so  graceful,  docile,  fair  and  free 
.    ^'^^""en  have  ever  called  a  ship  a. ,>;./ 

''aI^"'''''""'"''^^^^^'^''--^  space. 

And  shoot  one  like  an  arrow  from  a  bo..  1 
Sho.ld  every  little  ramble  be  a  race 

Pack-d  in  and  wh.stled  off,  where'er  we  go 
As  though  .n  sooty  Satan's  hot  e^.brace 

And  hurried  shrieking  to  the  shades  below? 
Vhate  er  thy  deeds,  on  this  there  is  no  cavil  L 
Thou  hast  destroy'd  the  poetry  of  travel, 

Noquietcountry-roadbyhedge  or  stream.; 
No  pretty  scenes  to  give  the  journey  zest; 

S  ft  down, n  golden  threads  on  nature's  vest- 
No  lo'frinir  UD  thP  hill   -o  f"--u       • 

No  harmless  gossip,  but  some  seedy  chap  - 
Some  scandal-monger-strains  his  aural  flap. 


STSAM, 


«w 


W^ith  ch.rnin.l    T'      '^'^'^  "^o^P't^ble  door, 

Tf'edoLyj/tt'H         "'^■"""'^'«°°^' 
r  Ota,  the  Jarder  well-supplied 

w,sh  the  storm  mi^ht  last  a  week  ! 

Al;ve  With  all  »k-  .'""ii 

J^-the;and,ou,;or:gt;^^^^^^^ 

^"  forty  Winks,  from  here  to  Jeri  ho    '^'^°' 


•  '*«"' 'th  a  smile  on  mvHp. 

^iaughwitnatearonmycheek- 

But  half  that  I  feel  T  .,  ' 

Ml  i  leel  I  cannot  reveal, 

And  vain  are  the  words  that  I  speak. 


viW-  rW' 


«S4 


frSCSLLAff£OUS 


POSMS. 


APRIL. 

I  SK  the  white  wreaths  dwindle  down 

To  little  mountls  of  icy  mire  • 
I  see  the  hf  I.,^,,  bare  and  brown. 

The  swelling  buds  upon  the  brier; 
i  see  in  many  a  sunny  spot 

The  tender  spears  of  verdure  rise  • 
I  see  young  Spring  return, -but  not 
The  form  that  ravish'd  once  mine  eyes. 

I  hear  the  bluebird's  cheery  call ; 

The  thrush  in  yonder  bosky  grove  • 
I  hear  the  freed  brooks' murmuring  fill; 

I  hear  the  cooing  of  the  dove; 
I  hear  the  plashing  on  the  pane;' 

The  distant  thunder  on  the  shore; 
I  hear  the  voice  of  Spring  again,  -' 
But  >4^r  sweet  accents  nevermore. 

I  feel  the  warm  winds  freshly  blow 
Athwart  the  fields  that  still  reuin 


VlftOlt. 


Some  trace  of  last  year's  wealth  anu  glow 

ifcel  the  pulse  of  Nature  bound 

Beneath  my  foot  where'er  I  tread. - 

But  neither  touch,  nor  sight,  nor  sound 
Can  give  me  back  my  sainted  dead  1 


^SS 


Now  to  our  God  and  King, 

Loud  let  our  anthems  ring; 

Praise  and  rejoice  I 
O'er  all  our  mighty  land. 
Where  only  freer,tn  stand, 

One  now  in  heart  and  hand. 
Join  every  voice  1 

Long  may  sweet  Peace  again 
Over  the  Union  reign,— 
Prosp'rous  and  grand  I 

Smile  every  mountain  side; 
Bloom  every  prairie  wide; 

Faith,  Hope,  and  Love  abide; 
God  bless  our  Land  I 


156 


**^SC£CLAUSOUS  foSMS. 


BETTY  AND  THE  BEAR. 

IH  a  pioneer',  cabin  out  VVest.  so  they  say. 

Some  unt..ely.„.rudergain-d  access!  one  day 
And  made  such  a  racket   h.  •      .     r  ^' 

The  lord  of  ,h.  """^^  ^'°"'  ^^'  '^^^P 

w'-herou;:  ;^';:;';7-'^--^er, 

••  My  gracious  ,'■  he    en-dllV'"'""' 
''Tlur-sabarinthekich  !    "''""^'^°^^' 

'^;L,.>^^-'""VVen...,er.. 

rBe?"'''"'''^^^^"'''«'^-astick.'. 

So  Betty  popt  out  and  the  poker  she  seized 

Wh.lehern,anshutthedoor.anda,.ins;ithe 
squeez'd  !  '      "  "  "* 

As  Betty  belabor'd  the  beast  with  her  blows  - 

No-n  his  forehead  and  no.  on  his  nose^l 
Her  man  thro- the  kevhnle  kept  s>-,r  . 

;  w.-n  do.,  „,,„„,,,,X  ;■;-". n, 

Now  pok.w„h,he,«k„,„d,x,ke  his  .,„„„„ 


1 


CKllfOUlfA  RECMA.  y^^ 

Don't  be  a  bit  scart  Of -m.  Betty,  my  dear; 
Don  t  be  a  bit  scart-  fur.  ye  know.  I  am  here !  - 

i>o  wah  poking  and  jabbing,  poor  Betty  alone 
At  last  laid  Sir  Bruin  as  dead  as  a  stone. 
Then  when  the  old  man  saw  the  bear  was  no  more. 
He  ventured  to  poke  his  own  nose  out  the  door. 
And  there  was  the  grizzly  stretch'd  on  the  floor, 
i  was  only  a  cub ;  but  no  matter  for  that  • 
He  puU'd  on  his  boots  and  he  clapt  on  his  hat. 
And  off  to  the  neighbors  he  hasten'd.  to  tell 
All  the  wonderful  things  that  that  morning  befell  • 
And  he  publish'd  the  marvellous  story  afar  -      ' 
How  <«  ME  an'  my  betty  jes'  slaughter'.!  a  bar  I 
Oh  yes  !  Come  an'see !  all  the  neighbors  hev  sid  it  • 
Jes  see  what  We  did.  ME  an'  betty-We  did  itp' 
But.  alas,  all  the  neighbors  were  perfe^ly  knowing 
That  she  did  the  business  and  he  did  the  blowing.. 

Ah  .  who  does  not  see  that  the  age  is  at  hand.       ' 
When  man  will  no  longer  be  lord  in  the  land  ? 
When  the  women  .hail  lay  by  ,he  needle,  and  take 
The  sceptre  and  sword,  the  plough  and  the  rake ! 
Then.  oh.  what  a  day  of  deliverance,  when 
The  editor  lays  down  his  wearisome  pen, 
The  mason  his  trowel,  the  joiner  his  s<,uare. 


tj^'^ 


~  »S«  ItSCSLtANEOUS  POEMS. 

V^hen  th  '""r  "°  '°"^"  "^'^  '"''^^  ^^^"  bear, 
When    he  solCer  shall  carry  his  n,usket  no  .ore 
The  ..or  repose,  and  the  constable  snore.  ' 

Whence  calmer  Shan  thro,  by  his  iron  and  .au., 
WhenM''"f'"'^°'''"^'^-P'^'--H 
When  Man.  who  has  struggled  for  6000  years 

In      e  sweat  of  his  forehead,  in  torture  andTjars 
Shan  .est  fro.  his  labor,  his  worry  and  strife        • 
Andres.gnaUhiscares,ohisstrong-n,inded;fe, 
O  Boys -what  an  era  of  tranquil  delights. - 
No  envy  and  malice,  no  .ean  little  spites 
No  s.n  and  no  sorrow,  no  neighborly  fight, 

When  Woman,  at  last,  shall  be  given  her  rights  , 

And  then  how  delicious  for  you  and  for  me 

To  su  all  the  morning  a-s,>ping  our  tea. 

Wuh  nothing  to  do  from  dawning  to  night.  -  • 

No  speeches  to  spout,  no  sermons  to  write.  ' 

No  bargains  to  make,  no  battles  to  fight 

No  kindlings  to  split,  and  no  fires  to  light, 

And  only  to  handle  a  knife  or  a  ladle- 

Or  p'rhap..  _very  rareiy-.o  joggle  ihe  cradle: 

I  say   very  rarely;  for.  long  before  then. 

The  boys  and  the  girls  will  be  women  and  men. 
And  some  Mrs.  liarnum  wil!  show  with  her  lumb  r 


HlirrS  TO  HOME  KVLSKS.  ,59 

The  cradle  in  which  the  Last  Baby  did  slumber. 
So  w,th  no  "encumbrance"  to  trouble  them  then, 
Of  course,  they'll  be  all  the  more  kind  to  the  men. 
-The  poor  little  men.  the  dear  little  men. 
The  tender-eyed,  soft-hearted,  soft-headed  men! 

But  if  there  be  some  of  the  ladies  who  may 
Keep  poking  round  house  in  the  primitive  way 
Regardless  of  what  the  strong-minded  may  say,' 
Just  list.  If  you  please,  to  this  bit  of  advice 
And^.«'ll  find  fwill  tend  to  keepeverything'nice: 
Remember,  there  's  nothing  more  easy  than  man 
To  manage,  if  ruled  on  a  sensible  plan ; 
But  if  you  -re  not  willing  or  able  to  do  it 
You  -d  better  avoid  him.  or  else  you  may  rue  it. 
Just  go  the  right  way.  and  you  needn't  be  skeer'd: 
For  what  is  a  man  but  a  boy  with  a  beard  ? 
The  same  at  all  seasons,  in  sunshine  or  rain. 
You  must  seldom  be  weary,  and  never  complain; 
When  sickness  afflidts  him.  serenely  endure 
His  grunts  and  his  groai.s  till  effecled  's  the  cure  • 
Should  he  smoke  his  cigar  in  the  very  best  room  ' 
Complacently  smile,  "  What  a  heavenly  perfume'- 
Oh,  surely,  't  is  fit  for  angelical  noses  ! 
And  see !  -on  the  carpet,  the  ashes  of  roses  !  " 


i6o 


»ffSC£ttAffSOUS  POMMS. 


How  much  hettt-r  ♦!,•     .L 

^  ney  never  will  <:r««i,  '      ' 

And  havl!   ''"""'■' ''■''''■•' •"'■'^  I*-.., 
u  nave  the  meal  served  while  fh^k 

If  he  should  be  surly  whvT  """'"''"^• 

And  be  careful  the  bjl  "'■''''''"'"«' 

^-o^xouw..ttr;hr:::i:r'^^^'- 

To  stand  shiv'ring    like  ah       .         ^'°"'^"'''' 
^^^  'ng.  i.ke  Adam  himself,  wh.le  his 

Is  finding  a  button  to  sew  on  K-     i 
An^    1      .  °"  "'s  sleeve ! 

Thejov'f^'    b  "•'"""'"' -Ota  l»r; 


CAPTAItf  GJt£S/fS  LOG. 


I6l 


CAPTAIN  GREEN'S  LOG-BOOK. 

Rough  and  rugged  as  a  bear-skin, 

But  as  warm,  was  Captain  Green, 
Sitting  in  the  cosy  cabin 

Of  his  gallant  "Ocean  Queen." 
Smoothing  out  a  wrinkled  volume 

With  a  wondrous  careful  hand,  — 
Seeming  not  to  heed  the  distance 
We  were  rolling  from  the  land. 
Now  he  nods  and  smiles  and  whispere, 

While  his  eye-lids  overflow. 
"  Captain,  pardon  me  for  asking 

What  those  hieroglyphics  show?" 
And  the  captain  drew  his  coat-sleeve 

O'er  his  face,  and  answer'd  slow, 
"  Well,  this  harryglifs,  —you  call  i't,— 

Is  my  log,  if  you  must  know  I  " 
Often  had  I  heard  of  log-books 
Kept  by  sailors  on  the  deep. 
But  within  the  mystic  volumes 
Never  chanced  to  get  a  peepj 


I63 


*fisc£LiAusoas  Posits. 


So  I  coax'd  the  son  of  Neptune 
Let  me  turn  the  record  o'er: 

"  Pshaw  ft  is  fiird  with  rude,  misshapen, 
inky  daubs,  and  nothing  more  !  " 

"Ay,  to  you,"  said  he,  "they  may  be 

Blots  and  scratches  on  the  sheet ; 
But  to  me  they  speak  a  language 
Ever  new  and  true  and  sweet ; 
For  they  tell  me  of  my  cottage,' 

Where  the  fire  is  burning  bright. 
Where  my  little  one  is  lisping 

Prayers  for  me,  this  stormy  night. 
Very  precious  is  this  volume. 

Full  of  houses,  trees,  and  men  I 
See  this  pidure  of  a  sailor  !  — 

Don't  you  know  it? -look  again! 
Can't  you  see  myself  depided. 
With  a  child  upon  my  knee? 
That 's  my  little  maid,  -my  Mattie,  - 

Who  did  everything  you  see  ! 
Every  scratch  and  mark  and  figure 

Is  the  sign  of  Mattie's  hand : 
Not  a  brighter  little  lassie 

Lives,  I  vow,  in  any  land  I 
Why,  I  never  cross  the  ocean, 


^  CLOVDSD  yi/NM. 

But  she  adds  a  sheet  to  this. 
Sparkling  with  her  precious  piduresj 

Every  piflure  is  a  kiss  ! 
Not  a  time  I  turn  them  over. 

But  I  feel  her  velvet  cheek 

Pressing  mine  "...And  here  the  captain 
Grew  so  hoarse  he  scarce  could  speak 

"Ah!  you  do  not  know  what  comfort 
From  these  blotted  leaves  I  reap. 

When  between  me  and  my  Mattie  ' 
Rolls  the  cold  and  lonely  deep  I  •• 


163 


A     CLOUDED    JUNE. 

What  ails  thee,  June,  that  thou  dost  pout  and 
frown, 

And  darkly  moan  in  melancholy  songs,  — 
Bearing  upon  thy  brows  a  cIo'.  dy  crown,' 

And  not  the  rose-wreath  f!  at  to  thee  belongs? 
W.th  folded  hands,  pale  cheek,  and  downcast  eyes 
Thou  comest  a  Niobe,  all  tears  and  sighs  I 


^^■- 


•■^ 


164 


ffSC£U4j^^0,.g  ^g„g 


in  thy  young  sister  April  we  expc<5t 

Though  „.h.,„d,„e,„,p„„,,J„„,,^;„^, 

And  b,av,„b.,„ed  U,r„„„,h  , he  .,„„,, ;• 
'"  "'f"'"""'-"'"/ Sloping  fa„/"' 
>Vh,te  co„„a„,  hop,  i,lu,„ed  e«:h  su„le»  d„ . 

A-1   nea,h, he  ™„u,  beheld  ,h„„„,w„sh 
No«W,u«,,,houbnde.mo„,h.r,he,e.r 

rH....ovestwithaU.,i„ehoursathwart  the  plain. 

Oh^  Virgin  June,  yet  deign  a.,.ne  to  Shine; 
Bj;:'r'r'''"^'--°n  the  move: 
But   h.rty  days  of  all  the  year  are  thine  ; 
Oh.  then,  should  each  be  over-fill-d  with  love 


<?i«r  r**  M/AX. 


»«S 


In  shady  groves,  deep  dells,  and  forest  bowers. 
Bed.ght  with  garlands  gay  of  blushing  flowers  ! 

On  far-oflriakes  with  islets  studded  o'er 

By  flood  and  field  and  breezy  mountain -steep. 
Or  where  green  billows  dash  upon  the  shore. 
Or  spedral  icebergs  gleam  along  the  deep. 
Or.  stretch'd  supine  beneath  ancestral  trees, 
By  babbling  brooklet  lull'd  and  murmuring  bees. 

Like  all  that  we  have  cherish'd.  soon  wilt  thou 
Fade  out  and  mingle  with  the  dreamy  past  I 

The  canker  feeds  upon  thy  glory  now.  ~ 
The  joys  of  earth  were  never  meant  to  last  • 

But  come;  the  meed  of  rarest  days,  you  know. 

10  thee  IS  given :  then,  smile  and  prove  it  so  • 


Here,  on  the  brink  of  the  river,  I  bear 
-•  —"■0*  aiiu  luvcicss  care  ! 

There,  beneath  that  tranquil  breast, 

Sweet  oblivion,  endless  rest ! 
Oh,  who  has  not  seen,  with  a  thrill  and  shiver 
His  own  white  far      i  the  glassy  river? 


:'^J^' 


366 


»"5CBLLAlfKOUS  POStfS. 


SIGNS    OF   THE    TIMES. 

L'STEN.  brother;  pause  and  listen  I 
Hear  you  not,  I  pray, 

Murmurs  like  a  mighty  tocsin 
Swinging  far  away,  — 

Slowandsolemn,«  Coming,  coming! 
Nearer  day  by  day  ? 

Over  all  the  din  and  clangor 
Of  this  life  around,  — 

Rush  of  commerce,  roar  of  battle- 
That  our  ears  confound . • 

Tolling-toliing,  deep  and  awful. 
Swells  the  solemn  sound  ! 

Oh  I  that  mystic  Something  coming. 
Earth  has  never  known  ! 

When,  or  how,  or  what  its  mission 
Is  with  Him  alone ; 

But  the  Soul,  devoutly  list'ning, 
Hears  the  monotone. 


THS  K ma  DOM  OF  HMAySN. 

Is  it  some  all-potent  Besom 

That  shall  sweep  away 
Every  idol  that  we  worship,  — 

Council  we  obey, 

All  the  dross  and  dust  of  ages 
From  the  light  of  day  ? 

Who  can  tell  f     But  fear  you  never. 

You  that  love  the  Right ; 
Tremble,  traitor  !  tyrant,  c'ow'ring 

•Neath  the  pall  of  night: 
Soon  shall  flash  and  flame  around  us 

God's  eternal  light  I 


107 


"Hov  shall  I  reach  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven?" 
And  a  hundred  guides  are  eager  to  lead ; 
But  He  himself,  who  knows  my  need 

Tells  me.  "  Within  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven." 

"But  is  there  nothing  to  handle  or  see,  — 
Priest  nor  worship  — altar  nor  fane?" 
And  the  voice  of  the  Master  comes  again, 

"Lo.  by  its  fruit,  shall  ye  know  the  tree." 


1 68 


>USCatLAifSOUS 


POSttS.. 


ANASTASIA. 

Had  earth  no  charms  for  thee, 
rf  ''°"'  ''"^^^  «°"'.  shouldst  take  the  dusty  way? 

^'d  love  not  light  thy  steps  With  constant  ra. 
From  tend 'rest  infancy? 

Couldst  thou  no  beauty  see, 

But  such  as  mock-d  thy  purest  maiden-dreams? 
The  flowers,  the  woods,  the  meadows,  and  Le 
streams,  — 

Were  they  not  all  for  thee? 
Or  did  thy  spirit  crave 

Isnarrow'd  tothegrave? 

Hadst  thou  no  J  ,  •      vw  ? 

No  chord  responsive  to  eartns  varied  song? 
No  kmdred  feeling  with  the  needy  throng 
That  cro*      he  courts  of  woe? 


GKAY  HAiRS. 


169 


There'sjoy.  high,  holy  joy 
Reserved  for  those  who  conquer  and  believe  - 
Ear  may  not  hear,  eye  see.  man's  heart  conceive. 

Nor  envious  death  destroy  I 

Such  now  is  thin;. !     Then  why 
Should  sombre  grief  sit  brooding  on  the  soul. 
And  all  the  waves  of  sorrow  o'er  us  roll  ? 

For  thee,  'twas  gain  to  die  I 


GRAY     HAIRS. 

So  you  have  found  a  silver  hair? 

Oh,  no  !  it  is  the  light,  mv  fair. 

That  falls,  ycu  ', ,.,  {„  such  a  way. 

It  lends  the  lock  a  gleam  of  gray. 

How  like  your    ,a  to  pry  and  peep  I 

'Tis  time  those    yes  were  closed  in  si  -p 
My  love.  v  these  leaves  to  fill 

Ere  twt     .  iv>-night.     Another  still ! 
There  -~  that '.  enough :  't  is  as  you  say.  - 
I  own  tha»  •:,>  is  somewhat  gray ; 
^-i  wither'd  leaves  are  often  seen' 


,:c^  .,  ■••  ^ 


If* 


t'SCELLAtfEOVS  H3EMS. 


In  June,  when  all  the  rest  is  green. 
Another  and  another  yet ! 

Oh,  what  a  teasing,  pretty  pet! 
You  seem  unconscious  how  it  shoots 

To  have  one's  hairs  pluck'd  by  the  roots' 
And  then,  suppose  you  pluck'd  them  all 

Twould  not  my  vanish'd  youth  recall- 
There,  there  !~the  clock  is  striking  ten! 
"wt!  must  you  torture  me  again? 
ThHasr.yousay?     I'm  glad  to  know  it. 
1  wish,  my  love,  you  were  — a  poet; 
For  then  those  silver  hairs  you  find  ' 
Would  be  a  halo  to  your  mind, - 
Each  single  spear,  so  pearly  white, 
Gleam  forth  a  ray  of  heavenly  light,  - 
A  dim,  ethereal,  filmy  glow,  — 
A  faint  aureola,  you  know : 
The  saints  are  always  painted  so. 

"Alas  I  "she  sighs,  "whene'er  I  see 
Those  tell-tale  hairs.  I  think.  For  me 
And  for  the  birds  that  sweetly  dream 
In  yonder  nest,  perchance,  they  gleam  • 
•T  was  toil  and  vigil  -doubts  and  cares  - 
Not  age,-that  blanch'd  those  silver  hai«!" 


SONG  OF  THE  SAM. 


tft 


SONG    OF    THE    RAIN. 

'T  IS  the  rain  f  the  welcome  rain  ! 
The  sweet  refreshing  rain  ! 
The  gushing,  rushing,  pattering,  dripping  rain! 
Oh,  to  wake  up  in  the  night 
To  the  music  of  the  rain,  — 
As  it  plashes  on  the  shutters. 
As  it  gurgles  in  the  gutters,  — 
As  it  drums  its  merry  marches 
On  my  hot  and  dusty  pane ! 
And  to  listen  to  the  showers 
Through  the  solemn,  sultry  hours 
Come  and  go ; 
And  to  know 
That  the  faithful  little  flowers 
Did  not  lift  their  pleading  eyes 
To  the  brazen,  burning  skies, 
All  in  vain. 
For  the  rain  ! 
And  to  know  that  in  the  valley. 
In  the  forest  and  the  plain, 


IJZ 


*"SCEtLANBOUS  POKM5. 


Are  a  thousand  thousand  famish'd  thin« 

Rejoicing  in  the  rain  ! 

That  the  meadows  will  bt  seen 
•    In  their  livery  of  green. 
As  though  sweet  May  awhile 
Had  come  again  to  smile ; 
That  no  more  the  shrunken  river 
Is  through  dusty  channel  creeping  • 

But  with  laughing  eddies  dimpled,' 
To  the  mother-wave  is  leaping. 
And  to  know  this  happy  night, 
There  are  hearts  of  humble  trust 
Thanking  Him  who  sendeth  rain 
On  the  evil  and  the  just ; 
While  from  many  a  grateful  eye. 
Are  the  pearls  cf  blessing  shed 
On  little  lips  that  whisper'd  last 
"Our  Father....  daily  bread!- 
And  to  know  that  on  the  morrow,— 
With  the  first  nush  of  the  day,— ' 
What  a  cloud  of  anxious  sorrow 

With  the  clouds  will  pass  away,- 
With  the  rain,  the  gentle  rain, ' 
The  sweet  refreshing  rain 
The  gushing,  rushing,  pattering,  dripping  rain  I 


THS  SMAL  m  fROii  POtfD. 


»73 


THE  SEAL  IN  FROG   POND. 

Lone  captive  of  the  hyperborean  main  ! 

Not  without  pity  can  I  look  on  thee, 
An(l  watch  thy  graceful  motions,  as,  in  vain, 

Thou  seek'st  thy  fellows  of  the  surging  scl 

How  strange  to  those  large,  liquid  eyes  of  thine 
Must  seem  these  shaven  lawns  and  waving  trees! 

This  lakelet,  so  unlike  thy  native  brine. 
Thus  gently  ruffled  by  th'  autumnal  breeze  ! 

Dost  thou  not  yearn  to  hear  the  Norther  blow, 
And  o'er  the  cold  green  billows  sweep  and  howl, 

Where  ice-fields  whiten  with  the  driving  snow, 
And  the  huge   rolling   mountains  grind    and 
growl  ? 

Good  to  thy  heart  amphibious  must  it  seem 
To  have  night's  curtain  spread  the  welkin  o'er, 

When,  undisturb'd,  thou  canst  repose  and  dream' 
Of  Baffin's  Bay  and  lonely  Labrador; 


»74 


KlSCKtt.AlfROUS  POEMS. 


Or,  wakeful,  gaze  aloft  and  recognize 
Thy  faithful  friends.  Orion  and  the  Bear 

And  sometimes  boreaUights.  which,  in  our  skies. 
But  seem  poor  ghosts  of  what  in  yours  appear. 

E'enaslgazeatthee.  methinkslhear 
The  thund-ring  billows  and  the  grinding  floes 

And  see  the  cliffs  their  fl.nty  foreheads  rear. 
Obscure  and  awful  through  the  blinding  snow's  1 

•  For  I  have  view'd  thy  comrades  of  the  main 
Disporting  freely  on  their  native  strand.  - 
In  myriads  dark'ning  all  the  icy  plain 
Along  the  storn  v  shores  of  Newfoundland. 

It  surely  cannot  be  so  passing  sweet 
To  hear  a  hundred  voices  shout  and  squeal  - 

What  time  thou  shoWst  thy  nose  the  air  to  greet 
"  Hi  ya  J  see,  there  he  is  I  the  seal  -  the  seal !  • ' 

Thou  art  no  traitor  to  thy  home  and  kind, 
Or  willing  trespasser  on  man's  domain  ' 

That  thou  in  durance  vile  shouldst  be  confined  • 

I  would,  poor  cousin,  thou  wert  free  again  I 
September,  iSdj.  ^ 


± 


FOUND  DSAD. 


«75 


"FOUND     DEAD." 

A  GOLDEN  light  from  the  lofty  hall 

Illumines  the  icy  street ; 
And  many  a  delicate  dancing  foot 

Is  tripping  to  melody  sweet. 
The  night  is  dark,  the  wind  is  high. 

Whirling  the  snow  about ; 
But  as  oft  as  a  beautiful  guest  glides  in, 

A  river  of  light  flows  out,— 
A  river  of  light  and  a  gush  of  song 

That  charm  the  ear  and  the  eye 
Of  the  poor  little  maid  and  her  brother  who  stand 

In  their  rags  and  shiver  and  sigh : 
"  O  brother  !  a  beautiful  thing  it  is 

To  be  rich  and  grand  like  these,  — 
Such  clothes  to  wear  and  music  to'hear. 

And  have  and  do  what  you  please  ; 
And  never  to  know  a  want  or  a  woe,' 

Nor  cold  nor  hunger  to  feel. 
Nor  yet  to  beg  at  a  hundred  doors, 
Before  you  may  taste  of  a  meal ! 


«7*  ItlSCEtLAUBOUS  POSMS, 

Oh   see  that  lady  enfring  no.. 
What  a  beautiful  dress  she  wears  I 

Why   brother.  I  guess  that  it  cost  enough 
To  keep  us  in  plenty  for  years! 

She.sgone     Well,  wait  for  the  next:  don't  cry. 
Voumay  take  .y  shawl  if  you  ..e  cold.  '' 

Ah   well ..  poor  n,o,her.  before  she  died. 

She  sa.d  she  was  going  away 

To  a  city  whose  streets  are  paved  with  gold 
And  ever  as  bright  as  day.  _ 

^'^7'"'°"' "'■«''' -'I -Ii.e  Without  cold 
lo  hunger  and  sorrow  unknown. 

I  foolishly  thought  to  go  with  her.  and  cried 
When  she  sa.d  she  .ust  leave  us.  alone, 

But  she  sa,d  that  if  I  was  a  good  little  girl. 
And  kind  and  tender  to  you 

That  we.  no  matter  how  poor  we  be. 
Should  come  to  that  city  too." 

'  •  •  , 

The  wintry  morning  is  keen  and  gray 
The  snow  lies  deep  on  the  ground;'      " 

L.kes,K.ctres  glare  the  shrouded  lamps. 
And  the  watchman  walks  his  round  - 


THE  SVEtriNG  PAPER. 

He  tramps  along  by  the  lofty  hall  : 

The  music  has  ceased  to  trill ; 
The  lights  are  out.  the  revellers'gone. 

And  all  is  silent  and  still 

"What,  ho!  what  is  this?    A  cat  or  a  dog 

That  perish'd  in  frost  or  fight? 
A  cap. -a  shawl, -a  tuft  of  hair.  _ 

A  hand!" Oh.  horrible  sight  1 

But  tears  of  pity  are  shed  too  late, 

That  fall  upon  lifeless  clay ; 
The  children  are  walking  the  golden  st--,, 
With  their  angel-mother  to-day. 


»77 


THE  EVENING  PAI  ER. 

Shadows  descending. 
Labor  is  ending. 
Homeward  are  wending 

Weary  ones  all ; 
Fleeing  with  gladness 
Meanness  and  badness, 
Mammonite  madness! 

Broken  each  thrall : 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

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»7« 


t'SCELLANSOUS  POSifS. 


Rushing  from  day-book. 
Ledger  and  pay-book, 
Like  a  young  May-brook 

Leaping  to  Jight ! 
Sweet  voices  blessing  them, 
Loved  ones  caressing  them,  — 
Coiiie  rjth  the  mrwr  »k,»  .  . 

me  paper  that  comes  with  night  f 

.     Then  for  the  Babel 
Round  the  tea-table  I 
All  who  are  able 

Let  their  tongues  run,— 
Musical  rattle. 
Infantile  prattle, 
Gossip  and  tattle. 
Frolic  and  fun  I 
While  at  the  end  there  is 
Each  pretty  lip  to  kiss  I 
Bachelors,  losing  this. 

Lose  all  delight  : 
All  it  is  worth  to  live. 
Best  the  world  has  to  give 
Come  with  the  paper  that  comes  with  night ! 


MY  KOCKMG.CHA/K. 


•7J 


J_. 


MY    ROCKING-CHAIR. 

The  wind  is  howling  to  enter  my  room, 

With  many  an  aching  care; 
But  I  smile  at  the  storms  of  time  and  clime. 

As  I  rock  in  my  rocking-chair. 
And  sprites  and  fays  are  hov'ring  round, 

Filling  the  fragrant  air ; 
And  I  dream  such  dreams  as  never  are  dreamt, 

Except  in  a  rocking-chair. 
My  heart  grows  large,  that  all  the  world 

May  enter  and  welcome  there; 
And  I  bless  e'en  him  who  did  me  a  wrong. 

As  I  rock  in  my  rocking-chair  I 
And  I  search  for  the  doubts  I  had  to-day; 
They  're  gone !  -  But  how  or  where  ?   ' 
Like  restless  babes,  they  drop  to  sleep 

As  I  rock  in  my  rocking-chair  I 
And  the  dust  and  sweat  of  the  weary  way. 

And  the  burdens  hard  to  bear, 
And  the  loss  and  the  cross  are  all  forgot. 
As  I  rock  in  my  rocking-chair  ! 


i8o 


''fSCJSt.LAjfgg 


I^S  /VXMS. 


ONLY  SHADOWS. 

Why  those  :.„,.d  glances  peering 
Round  the  dimly-Iighted  hall? 
;'  ''''  '■"'■"'  ^"d  dying  embers  ■ 

.Casting  shadows  on  the  wall- 

Onlyshadows-flitting'shadow,. 

Yes  they  seem  to  move  and  quiver. 

L.ke  dumb  spirits  standing  near; 
Vet. hough  mocking  every  motion. 

T.S  but  shadows  that  you  fear  ^ 
Only  shadows-airy  shadows 

Ah  1  you  think  of  those  departed. 
Those  who  glided  to  and  fro 

L'g'nly  through  this  very  chamber. 
On  whose  walls  the  fire  did  throw 

Dancing  shadows-passing  shadows. 

But  as  years  roll'd  on  they  left  us 

Empty-hearted  at  the  door  • 
Then  there  came  to  fill  their  places 

Round  our  h-arth  forevermore. 

Only  shadows,  shadows,  shadows. - 
Mockmg  shadows  evermore. 


vjfcts  atu. 


UNCLE    BEN. 

The  quaint  old  town.  I  remember  it  well.  - 

With  the  street  along  the  strand. 
The  windy  bay,  the  rocks  and  the  reefs, 

The  cliffs,  and  the  gray-blue  sand  ! 
And  oft  in  my  lonely  hours,  they  come 
Like  the  scenes  of  a  dream  again,  - 
The  rocks  and  the  reefs  and  the  windy  bay. 

And  the  yarns  of  Uncle  Ben. 
Ah.  well  I  remember  the  brave  old  salt. 

And  his  legends  weird  and  wild. 
That  many  a  long  dark  winter  night. 
The  weary  hours  beguiled  1 

Some  said  Uncle  Ben  was  cross'd  in  love. 
And  some,  he  was  crazed  with  fright, 

And  only  a  dream,  his  favorite  yarn 
Of  the  Angel-girl  of  the  Light. 

But  whilst  the  sea-wind  sobb'd  and  sigh'd. 
And  the  big  drops  plash'd  the  pane 

With  the  old  man  there  in  his  great  arm-chair. 
What  reck'd  we  wind  or  rain  ! 


iSi 


i8« 


M/SCMLLA/fSOUS  POB.HS. 


Oh  hear  Mad  Moll  how  .he  roars.  Uncle  Beal 
^   And  the  hollow  winds,  how  they  moan  i" 
T«ad.rtyn>ght;butacatVpawthis. 
My  lads,  to  the  storms  I  have  known  -  •■ 
"Was  it  worse  than  this,  Uncle  Ben."  we  a.k 
^    "  The  night  that  the  Belle  was  lost  ? '  ' 
"Ay !  ten  times  worse  I  with  z^  wild  a  sea 

As  ever  a  good  ship  cross'd 

Oh.  human  lives  they  come  and  go. 

Like  the  lights,"  quoth  Uncle  Ben 
"That  sparkle  awhile  on  tlie  crest  of 'the  wave 
And  then  fade  out  again  I  "  ' 

And  now  the  old  man  lights  his  pipe. 

And  looks  with  a  far-off  gaze 
While  the  speftre  forms  of  the  memory  float 

Through  time's  obscuring  haze 
"The  east  wind  blew,  the  white  foam  flew. 

And  never  a  star  was  seen ; 
The  land  lay  off  our  starboard  bows. 
And  the  breakers  roar'd  between. ' 
With  scarce  a  rag  to  the  bending  spars, 

The  good  ship  held  her  way, 
Till  we  caught  a  sight  of  the  welcome  light 
Above  the  feathery  spray. 


V/fCU   BKlt. 

"And  so  we  drifted  near  and  near, 

Each  rock  and  reef  we  pass'd. 
Till  high  on  a  bank  of  shifting  slnd 

The  poor  Belle  plunged  at  last. 
And  Chen  the  waves  they  leapt  and  hiss'd 

And  madly  raved  and  tore. 
Till  naught  but  a  mass  of  tangled  wreck 

Went  tumbling  on  to  the  shore; 
And  over  my  face  a  black  cloud  fell 
And  I  saw  and  knew  no  more. 

"I  knew  no  more  than  a  babe  unborn,  - 
No  nc-e  than  a  stock  or  a  stone  • 

And  how  I  got  to  the  land,  my  lads. 
To  the  Lord  is  only  known  i 

But  when  I  came  to  myself  again. 
An  angel  bent  o'er  me.  -- 

In  her  hand  so  white  she  held  the  light 

That  glitter'd  out  on  the  sea. 
Her  golden  locks  by  the  winds  were  toss'd  - 

They  brush'd  my  cold  wet  brow; 

And  she  held  my  hand;  but  oh.  that  face  I 
Dear  Lord.  I  see  it  now!... 

Well.  I  was  a  free  young  sailor  then. 
Of  naught  in  the  world  afraid ; 


'83 


■■ 


■#A    •     ■ 


(■•: 


*«4  tffscMLi^usous  foams. 

Iwork'dmyway.  fgotmypay. 
Nor  cared  for  man  nor  maid. 

But  when  I  saw  that  innocent  face 
I  felt  that  I  had  a  heart; 

AndIsaid.'S.eetangel-g'irloftheligh. 
we  never  more  shall  part  I ' 

And  kiss'd  me  on  the  cheek 
And  my  hand  she  press'd  to  h^r  beating  breast- 

But  never  a  word  did  speak. 
And  my  fingers  closed  as  if  no  more 

Could  I  let  that  soft  hand  go, 
That  her  blessed  beam  might  ever  gleam 
O  er  all  my  days  below  I 

"But  human  lives  they  come  and  pass        • 
Like  the  lights/'  quoth  Uncle  Ben 

"That  sparkle  awhile  on  the  crest  of 'the  wave 

And  then  fade  out  again  ! 
Scarce  twelve  short  moons  had  wax'd  and  waned. 
When  her  Father  came  one  night 

And  said,.  Now.  Ben,  you  must  givi  me  again 
The  angel-girl  of  the  ligh;.' 


1 


VlfCLM  MMM. 

"AMads.  but  that  w.,.thunder.boU 
J;"'"^"*^^- clear  blue  sky. 
With  tht  ship  at  rest  on  the  ocLv  K 
.^^;aehouh..,.„,,-7'^-. 

^^^  lord,.  I  cried..  I  kno,  3,, 

Joo  good  for  a  man  like  me;  '^' 

Bu^'AweWwithafaithfullove. 

And  ncne  are  so  happy  as  we. 
OW^  her  not  away,.  I  said. 
And  leave  me  again  to  wreck  • 

For  angels  enough  there  be  aloft.' 
To  spare  us  a  few  on  deck.. 

"  B"*  *'  '^M  all  no  use  I     Th^  hi,  i.    . 
O'er  m^  f  =.^ '     ^  ne  black  cloud  fell 

Oer  my  face  as  it  did  before. 

For  so  she  went  to  hor  home,  and  I 
Lay  wreck'd  again  on  the  strand; 

V«hrough,,e'sspray.Icanseet;eray 
Of  alight  on  the  far-off  land.-        ^ 

Of*  constant  light  by  day  and  night 
A"<''t.s  held  in  my  angel's  hand. '. 


185 


i86 


tllSCtLLAHgovS 


f^StfS. 


YEARNINGS. 

Come,  holy  Life-giver,  — 

Come  quickly  to  me ; 
All  strength  to  deliver, 
All  fullness  forever 
All  gWnes,  and  riches  and  pelce  like  a  river. 
Are  only  in  thee  ! 

Came  Love's  fervent  meeting. 

With  arms  that  enfold 
Twain  hearts  that  are  b-ating 
One  paean,  and  cheating 
Old  Time.  ^  we  fancy;  but  cold  is  the  greeting 
Of  lips  that  are  cold  I 

From  dust,  came  the  flower 

To  gladden  the  way ; 
Through  sunshine  and  shower, 
The  pride  of  the  bower 
And  ever  shall  be.    But.  alas,  for  the  hour  f 
It  faded  away. 
Then,  welcome.  Life-giver  J 
All  fullness  and  riches  and  peace  like  a  river. 
Are  onlv  in  thee. 


J-. 


r*f'  CftMISTMAS  Btus. 


THE  CHRISTMAS    BELLS. 

Oh.  hear  the  sweet  be,,,  a.  thev  ring. 
And  welcome  the  glorious  morn,!: 

J'; ''^'"^  Messiah  was  born, 
^^°'drn  the  zenith  his  star. 

^  How  it  brighten,  the  heavens  above, 
A»dP"nces  perceive  from  afar, 

An^  come  With  their  treasure,  of  love. 
'7  J-n  -very  voice  in  the  song 

The  sweet  bells  of  Christmas  awake 
Co-e  jo.„  .„  ,he  Jubilant  throng 

The  journey  to  Bethlehem  take. 

^7^^"'V°- Monarch  i,  born, 
in  Dav,d  and  Solomon's  line; 

^-«  myrrh,  for  the  sorrow  and  scorn. 
Bnng  .ncense.  for  he  i,  divine.  ' 

He  comes,  and  the  shadow,  depart 
From  al,  the  dark  region,  aroTnd. 

He  comes,  and  rejoicing  each  heart' 
W«h  songs  of  salvation  resound  - 


««7 


i88 


IISCBLLAHgOVS  fOMMS, 


No  longer  in  doubt  and  distress 

Poor  wayfarers  stand  on  the  shore; 
Now  Jesu  is  waiting  to  bless. 

And  lead  them  the  dark  river  o'er 

Bnng  incense  of  worship,  bring  gold. - 
All  gifts  at  his  feet  shall  we  lay 

The  Saviour  by  prophets  foretold,'- 
Jehova|j  is  with  us  to-day. 


THE  CHILD  JESUS. 

-Yea.  daughter,"  said  the  Rabbi,  casnng  off 
H.s  gabardine,  ..the  Council  hath  sat  late  ■ 

But  not  without  good  cause;  for.  sooth  to  iell. 

We  had  tn.s  day  a  marvellous  visitant, 

Wh.ch.  if  I  thought  as  do  the  gentile  Greeks 

And  Romans.  I  should  dare  believe  a  god  - 

Though  in  the  form  and  semblance  of  a  child  • 

•  For  a.  we  probed  the  deep  and  hidden  things. - 

The  awful  mysteries  of  our  Holy  Writ  _ 

There  came  a  boy  with  large  and  h.miious  eyes. 

Which  he  did  fix  upon  us  with  a  gazt 

So  steadfast  and  «>  searching,  that  we  «w 


THU  CHILD  JKSUS. 


«•» 


Naught  «ve  those  eye.,  Whereon  hi.  lip.  he  oped 
And.  ,n  a  ..Ivery  voi,e.  ,uch  questions  ask'd 

Asnev,    ".an.  much  Jes.  a  child,  conceived ; 
And  when  we  fail'd  '    answer  l.im.  he  smiled 
A  sad.  sweet  smile,  and  answer'd  them  himself. 
And  ,n  such  wise  as  fill'd  us  with  amaze  I 
For  in  our  do<flrine.  prophecy,  and  law. 
He  seem'd  exaa.  -.„d  yet  a  twelve-year  boy , 
Ifsuch,.ndeed,hewa,.     So  sped  th/ time. 

With  pallul  cheek,  tear-stain  .1.  dishevell'd  lock. 

And  eyes  so  like  the  child-,  that  all  could  see       ' 
She  was  his  mother,  e'en  betore  she  press'd 
""  '^-nbling  lips  upon  hi.  .ilky  hair, 
Whisp'ring.  .  Son,  why  hast  thou  th.„  dealt  with 

Lo.  thy  father  and  myself  have  «,ught  thee 
Sorrowing..     But  he  said,  '  How  is  it  that 
Ve  sought  me?    Wist  ye  not  that  I  must  be 
About  my  father',  business?'     Yer  she  seem'd 
To  understand  him  not;  but  silently 

Conduced  him  away, -and  .e  were  mute. 
Mark  me,  Rebecca,  if  this  be  a  child 
Of  mortal  mould,-the  which  perplexeth  me.- 
Th.  world  will  surely  hear  of  him  some  day  " 


ipo 


M/SC£LtA/fSOUS  n)SMS. 


GRETCHEN. 

"GRETCHEN.Gretchen!  run.  my  daughter  J 

A  wounded  Frenchman 's  down  by  the  wall ! " 

"Mother,  but  why  should  I  run  to  a  Frenchman. 
Mave  to  give  him  a  pistol-ball?  " 

"Gretchen.  Gretchen  !  think  of  thy  brother. 
Following  Fritz  so  far  away !  •  ' 

"  ^°'''"'  ^  ''"P^  ^' '-  making  the  Frenchmen 
Dance  to  the  roll  of  his  drum  to-day !  " 

"Ah  !  but,  Gret,  suppose  he  is  fainting - 

Famishing,  down  by  a  Frenchman's  vail !  " 

"  Mother.  O  Mother !  and  hear'st  thou  nobody 
Feebly,  •  Gretchen  !  Gretchen  !  ■  call  ?  " 

"No,  my  child  J  but  I  hear  tne  breezes 
Murmuring  round  our  empty  hall.  " 

"Mother.  I'll  run  to  the  wounded  Frenchman. 
Fainting  -  famishing,  down  by  the  wall !  '• 


OMCEiyMO, 


191 


DECEIVED. 

With  honeyed  words  you  won  her  heart, 
And  led  her  from  her  father's  hall. 
And  bade  her  hope  for  more  than  all 

The  love  from  which  she  wept  to  part. 

And  she  believed  your  promise  true. 
And  so  released  her  last  embrace 
.  Of  childhood's  home,  and  turn'd  her  face 
To  other  scenes  along  with  you. 

"A  right  good  man  have  we  allied  : 
A  man  of  prudence  and  of  mind," 
The  father  said.     "  I  trust  she  '11  find 

A  constant  heart,"  the  mother  sigh'd. 

And  soon  again  the  hearth  grew  bright, 
And  every  doubt  was  lull'd  to  rest ; 
And  blest  because  their  child  was  blest. 

The  good  old  pair  rejoiced  that  night. 


19* 


tlSCBUMttSOUS  nSHS. 


^"!  7^*  ^^'^'h-'hpass'd  Since  then. 
And  Mary  sits  alone  in  tears,  _ 

Alone,  alone  f  and  only  hears 
The  steeples  chime  and  chime  again. 

The  rain  descend,  the  night-winds  moan; 
B;>t  you,  amid  the  reeling  throng. 

V.   ere  flows  the  wine  and  swells  the  «,ne 

Heed  not  that  Mary  sits  alone  I  ^' 


ROSES  AND  THORNS. 

I  GATHER'D  the  roses: 

My  fingers  were  torn; 
Full  early  they  faded. 

And  left  me  to  -nourn. 
Vet  others  are  blooming 

As  fresh  as  the  morn ; 
I  sigh  for  their  beauty. 

But  think  of  the  thorn  I 


*l*  f*MS3. 


*9i 


THE  PRESS. 

When  danger,  darken  o'er  the  land. 

And  gathering  tempests  rise; 
When  lurid  lightnings  glance  and  gleam 

Along  the  murky  skies,  — 
What  trusty  guardian  seek  we  then 
To  shield  us  from  distress. 

And 'neath  its  shelter  feel  secure? 
The  Press,  my  friends,  the  Press  I 

When  rulers  fail  their  faith  to  keep, 

And  use  their  power  for  ill ; 
And  in  the  iacred  name  of  Right, 

Their  selfish  ends  fulfil ; 
When  injured  Justice  lifts  her  head. 

And  dares  to  ask  redress. 
Who  pleads  her  cause  with  clarion  voice' 
The  Press,  my  friends,  the  Press  I 

To  keep  the  boon  our  fathers  gave. 
For  which  they  f    ght  and  died,' ^ 


'94 


mSCBLLAltMOVS  ^OSJfS. 


The  booii  of  Freedom,  -  bright  and  fair.- 

(A  nation's  dearest  pride  I) 
What  power  beneath  the  arm  of  God, 

Do  Freedom's  sons  possess, 
That  holds  the  tyrant  in  its  grasp? 

The  Press,  my  friends,  the  Press  I 

The  Press,  my  friends,  the  Press,  —  it  speaks 

The  burden  of  our  souls  ! 
If  gay,  it  laughs;  perplex'd,  it  guides; 

Or  vex'd,  it  thunder  rolls  I 
Then  should  we  guard  it  pure  and  free. 

That  Heaven  may  ever  biess 
Our  champion,  advocate,  and  guide,  — 

The  Press,  my  friends,  the  Press  I 


EMPEROR  LEAD. 

Let  Moneybags  boast  of  his  silver  and  gold, 
Whose  lustre  so  long  has  Wn  shed 

On  the  face  of  mankind ;  but  where  can  you  find 
A  metal  so  mighty  as  Lead  ? 


J 


MMf'MkOM  tSAD. 

Not  alone  on  ehe  field  Of  red  Slaughter,  we  see, 
By 'he  numbers  of  wounded  and  dead. 

That  steel  !s  in  vain  in  the  terrible  rain,  - 
In  the  fearful  tornado  of  Lead,  —  ' 

Not  there  is  the  might  of  us  majesty  shown. 

Whate'er  may  be  chanted  or  said; 
No ;'t .snot  in  strife,  but  in  everyday  life. 

We  behold  rhe  dominion  of  Lead  I 

No.  in  death-dealing  balls  is  the  metal  supreme; 

Not  .n  blood  should  its  record  be  read  •• 
But  over  the  world  i.  its  banner  unfurled.  -I 
'Tis  Type  makes  a  monarch  of  Lead: 

The  king  and  the  bishop  bow  down  at  his  throne. 
And  are  forced  to  acknowledge  him  head ; 

The  great  and  the  small,  rich  and  poor,  one  and 
all, 

Are  the  subjedls  of  Emperor  Lead  I 


»9S 


196 


fffSCSttAUaoVS  fOBMS. 


TO  A  REJECTED  POEM. 

What  I  here  again,  thou  worse  than  Noah',  dove. 

That  br.ngest  nothing  green  back,  e'er  so  small. 
To  this  poor  ark  that  scarce  can  keep  above 

The  whelming  waves  or  weather  out  the  squall! 

Thou  luckless  waif,  will  no  one  take  thee  in? 
Does  every  magazine  deny  thee  rest? 

Hast  thou  no  favor  and  no  art  to  win 
Regard  from  any  editorial  breast? 

Ah,  little  do  they  know  the  anxious  pain 
Thy  hapless  parent  suffer'd  at  thy  birth  1 

The  brilliant  hopes  he  foster'd-ail  in  vain  <  — 
Of  wealth  and  fame  contingent  on  thy  wcnh  I 

Alas  !  they  tell  me  thou  art  thin  and  tame 
And  weak  and  rickety  upon  thy  shanks; 

Not  in  these  very  words;  but.  all  the  same 
They  mean  it  when  they  say  "Declined  with 
thanks." 


KMKAMHTAL  KM.:gM. 

Or  all  the  diseases  that  ever  were  known 

Since  Noah's  disastrous  days, 
The  strangest  that  yet  has  affliaed  mankind 
Is  the  present  keramikal  kraze  ! 

JCe-ram-i-ial  : 
You  know ;  the  keramikal  kraze. 
You  may  spell  it  ceramical  craze,  if  you  choose 

To  follow  illiterate  ways ; 
But  modern  Kulture  demands  that  it  should 
Be  spe!l-ed  keramikal  kraze,  — 

Ke-ram-i-kal : 
That 's  it;  the  keramikal  kraze. 
Whoever  is  kaught  with  this  kurious  komplaint. 

Very  soon  all  the  symptoms  betrays ; 
And  every  old  pitcher  and  pot  in  the  house 
With  birds,  bugs,  and  Japanese  blaze  I 

Ke-ram-i-kal ; 
For  such  is  keramikal  kraze. 
By-and-by.  when  this 'odd  epidemic  is  o'er. 

The  ash-man  will  stand  in  amaze, 
To  find  every  barrel  so  full  of  "ould  mugs,"  — 
The  remains  of  keramikal  kraze  ! 

Ke-ram-i-kal ; 
Then  adieu  to  Keramikal  Kraze! 


»97 


«9«  tnSCELtAMKOUS  POSUfS. 

I  STOOD  one  day  beside  a  wither'd  hag  ^ 

A  w    ,,hcd.  wrinkled,  ragged,  dusty 'crouc.  ^ 
Who.  fro„,  an  ash-heap,  tried  to  f51,  her  bag 
^.^^'"^"^^^"'"'-^^'"-yawearygrJan. 
Sajd  I  to  her.  ..What  are  you  doing  here?'. 

Whereat  she  cast  a  sharp,  keen  glance  at  me 
Andw.thagrinthatstretch'dfro.eartoear 
Made  answer.  " Pickin'  cinders,  don't  'ee  see?" 

'■"'"  t':,Lr  ■■^''^- — 

"To  thaw  n,y  bones,  and  warn,  my  drop  o' drink. 
To  soak  my  frozen  crust  o'  mouldy  bread  I 

"  Humph  laxin' me  what  for.  an' I  so  cold. 
An   narry  precious  tooth  around  my  jaws  ! 
He  11  know  hisself.  n  he  grows  poor  an'  old.  - 

VVh.ch  God  forbid!"  she  moand  with  lifted 
claws. 

"Oh.  poor  unfriended  creature  !  "  I  began  • 

"Why  longer  strive  to  bear  the  life  you  dor 
Just  die  at  once "       Wh,.„    i     i 

once.  When    back   she   flash'd. 

"Young  man. 
I've  just  as  good  a  right  to  live  as  you  !  " 


MMAKT  AtfD  SOUL. 


«99 


HEART  AND  SCUL.     " 

Poor  Heart,  so  lonely  now. 
Within  thy  prison-wall, 
Thou  may'st  not,  with  the  winged  Soul, 
Obey  the  spirit-call. 

Nay;  thou  must  throb  and  ache, 
And  wring  the  bloody  sweat. 
And  toil  incessant  at  thy  post, 
Un liberated  yet. 

'Tis  for  the  joyous  Soul 
To  mount  the  sapphire  dome, 
And  with  the  loved  ones  hold  commune, 
In  their  eternal  home. 

« 

Here  on  this  narrow  mound. 
Still  must  thou  lie  and  bleed  : 
Earth  ever  clings  to  kindred  earth,  — 
The  Soul  alone  is  freed. 


aoo 


>*'SCtLtA,fM0US  fotMS. 


MY   HILLS. 

W*vK  your  theatre,  and  hail,. 

Hp  your  shop,  and  show,  and  ball, 
^'-.th.n  your  city-wall.;  '' 

0"'y  let  me  have  my  hills,  _ 

My  lone  and  silent  hills 

^here  Nature,  inn,,  3/,,^ 
i'ours  ever  out  and  fill. 
Her  chalice  y>\t.\,  delight  • 
Whisp'ring  all  the  while, 
^"h  a  winsome  smile. 
Such  promise  in  my  ear, 

As  mortals  seldom  hear' 
^'or  here  no  chancel-rail 

.No  jealous  screen  or  vail' 

Divides  me  from  my  God; 
But.  on  this  mossy  sod 

.With  the  blue  dome  above 
And  the  green  world  below 
I  ^^,  I  hear,  I  know 
I  feel  that  God  is  Love! 


-^ 


